


Bite Your Tongue And Choke Yourself To Sleep

by trashcangimmick



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Anxiety, Dream Sex, Friends to Roommates to Lovers, Infidelity, M/M, Mental Health Issues, PTSD, Parent Death, Past Rape, Post-Canon, Rape Aftermath, Rape/Non-con Elements, Slow Burn, Steve Whump, Xenophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-04
Updated: 2019-03-10
Packaged: 2019-10-22 01:19:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17653292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trashcangimmick/pseuds/trashcangimmick
Summary: Steve is going to grad school in Chicago. Life is comfortable. Life is stable. Steve is doing great and he really wishes everyone would stop asking.





	1. In The Days Before The Damage

**Author's Note:**

> This started as me wanting to write gross monster porn and then I caught feelings ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Big, glowing, neon sign of a trigger warning for rape/non-con elements. It's not between Billy and Steve, if that matters. Also if you are squicked by the idea of Steve getting fucked by demodogs, hit that back button my dude.

It’s normal to have dreams about a traumatic event.

 

That’s what Steve has read in psychology textbooks. That’s what he tells himself late at night, when he still has the lights on, and his bed looks like a coffin full of rusty nails or some other horror movie bullshit. He’s just–y’know–dealing with stuff. He’s trying to deal with stuff that he is legally obligated to not talk about under orders from some shady branch of the US government that most likely still keeps tabs on him. Of course that’s gonna result in some less than healthy coping mechanisms. When you try to repress something, it just finds weird ways to squirm to the forefront of your subconscious.

 

But, like, Steve is fine. He’s always been fine. He will always be fine. He just keeps moving forward. Momentum keeps a bicycle upright. The key is to just never stop. If he’s busy, he doesn’t think about the hazy memories of eldritch horrors that seem less and less real the farther away he gets from them.

 

Maybe it didn’t happen at all. He’s considered that possibility. He might just be a fucking nutcase. That would be simpler. It would track with what his dad’s always grumbling. Only crazy people want to be therapists. There has to be something wrong with you, some broken part of yourself that drives you towards suffering, to take on a task so masochistic as trying to fix everyone else’s problems.

 

Then again, Steve’s dad says a lot of shit at home that’s not so cute, or nice, or polite as he is in business meetings. Like how faggots must be the most pathetic people on the planet. Why would anyone _choose_ such a miserable life? The irony of the statement never hits him. Steve’s not holding his breath.

 

His dad still signs the tuition checks for grad school. Steve gets good grades. Better than he did in Hawkins. Weird how much more time he has to study since he’s not at basketball practice every night, and doesn’t have a girlfriend, and honestly, doesn’t really go to parties anymore. He got bored of partying the first semester of his freshmen year. He finds most people loud, and grating, and not to sound all Holden Caulfield, but he’s tired of how shallow and fake everyone acts. Pain isn’t a contest, but he’s seen some shit. It’s hard to care about the idiotic intacracies of social politics when you know what sort of darkness can lurk just beneath the surface.

 

It’s hard to assimilate into civilian life when you’ve been on the front lines of a battlefield nobody would believe existed. Some part of Steve is always on alert. Ready for the proverbial landmine to go off and drag him down into the abyss.

 

So yeah. He doesn’t sleep enough, and when he does, he has fucked up dreams. But in general, he’s not complaining. He’s got a nice apartment within walking distance of lake Michigan, the redline, and the Loyola campus. He likes Chicago a lot better than Indiana. He has a few friends, who also don’t really like to go out, and are down to just come over for dinner and a bottle of wine and watch stupid TV shows.

 

Life is comfortable. Life is stable. Steve is doing _great_ and he really wishes everyone would stop asking. Most of the time he leaves his phone off the hook, or just lets everything go straight to voicemail, because he doesn’t want to talk to Nancy, or Joyce Byers, or bless his heart, Dustin. He’s trying to move on. That’s pretty difficult when everyone from his old life keeps trying to suck him back in, ask when he’s coming to visit, ask if he’s _seen anything weird_. He doesn’t want to sit around and tell war stories with the only other people who could corroborate it. He’s trying to fucking forget.

 

He’s not doing a great job of it, though, judging by the fact he’s been hallucinating Billy Hargrove on CTA platforms through the city. Either that or he’s found an eerie doppelganger. The resemblance isn’t exact. But it’s uncanny. The hair is different. Cut short with just a little fluffy fringe on top. There’s more piercings. Tattoos. The silk button down shirts have taken a hike in favor of ripped up t-shirts, and denim jackets covered in safety pins.

 

It’s probably not Billy. It’s probably just some guy who would be freaked out by Steve staring at him if he ever looked up or took off his headphones. But Steve gets it. He also walks around with headphones on, and never makes eye contact with strangers, because that’s what you do in a city. There’s only so many fucks to give in a day. If you stopped and talked to everyone who tried to ask for money, or tell you their sob story, you’d never get anywhere. When you’re surrounded by people, the only way to survive is to ignore the vast majority of them.

 

Besides, he wouldn’t have anything to say to Billy Hargrove. Even if it was Billy Hargrove. Which it’s not.

 

***

 

Steve wakes up sweating. Breathless. Flushed all over and rock hard. He knows it’s fucked up. But that only makes his cock twitch and spit out a little drool of precome.

 

He’s pushing down his boxers before he can think about it. Trying to clutch at the fading imagery.

 

_Slick._

 

Hot and wet the way a mouth is, but there’s too much liquid. The flesh, if you can call it that, is rougher than it should be, dripping something disgusting and viscous. It has an indescribable smell. Almost fruity, but too sweet. Halfway to rotten. Plant matter that’s just _wrong_. From a different world. It’s all decay and death, and yet.

 

In his dreams, the tendrils curl around him. Slimy rope binding his wrists and ankles, so that no matter how hard he struggles, he can’t get free.

 

Then it’s like the scene from The Evil Dead that most people leave out when they talk about what a great move that is. _Tree rape._ Sticky vines forcing their way inside him, penetrating him, slithering down his throat and up his ass, so he can’t breathe, or scream and has to just _take it._

 

Probably the worst part is that it started out as pure horror, but over the years, Steve’s developed a complex about it. Where now, the shock, and the pain, and the incredible fullness of vines twisting inside him is an idea that he can fixate on. It’s an idea that gets him so goddamn hard.

 

It’s an idea that makes him cream himself after just a few sloppy tugs.

 

He shudders, body flooded with a screwy chemical cocktail of shame and endorphins. He lies there in his own mess, hating himself. Maybe this is a sort of stockholm syndrome. Sexualizing his demons because they aren’t going anywhere and he has to find some way to make them more tolerable.

 

Or maybe he’s just a pervert. That’s why he doesn’t pick up the phone when Nancy, or Joyce, or Dustin call. Because he doesn’t want to tell them _I dream about getting violated by monsters._ Because he’s terrified that he’s the only one, and that it’s something wrong with him instead of the shared experience.

 

***

 

In the daylight hours, Steve tries to think about it clinically. Literally. The subconscious sometimes works with brutish tools to get a point across. _You feel exposed and vulnerable over what happened to you. Everything evil that lived underneath Hawkins reminds you that you’re insignificant and powerless. Here’s a mental movie of you getting fucked by monsters._

 

The dreams aren’t necessarily the problem. The fact that Steve gets off on them isn’t even a comment on his moral character. It’s a way of processing feelings he’s not addressing. It’s an attempt at trauma mastery.

 

That’s what he would tell himself from an armchair.

 

The problem is that it’s all bouncing around inside his head with no outlet. He can’t tell anyone. He can’t air out the wound, so it just keeps festering. So he just feels progressively worse. He’s gross. He’s gross and he’s developing an awful fetish for even grosser things. Because he has emotional problems. Intimacy problems. Trust issues. A deep-seated paranoia that isn’t entirely unfounded. Nameless, faceless, Government People are watching him. He knows it. He can feel it. How can he tell himself he’s imagining things when it’s been true before?

 

He’s purposefully shutting out the only people who could help him, because getting better would mean addressing everything that’s wrong and at the moment–it seems like a mountain that’s way too tall to climb. So he’s just gonna sit here at the bottom, in the trash and chaos, and pretend that he’s fine. It’s easier. At least for now. He’ll address the issues eventually. Probably. Maybe. That’s all something for Future Steve to deal with.

 

***

 

In group, Steve talks about his distant parents. He talks about getting cheated on. His broken heart. Feeling like he had to be someone he wasn’t to fit in, and how his asshole friends rejected him when he broke down and acted like a decent person. He talks about being _queer_ and how he’s not out to anyone back home. How he’s afraid to come out, and doesn’t see an upside. Only excommunication and revoked access to his dad’s money.

 

He talks about getting _attacked by dogs_ in the woods. Because it’s close enough to the truth. He talks about how Barb went missing. He talks about babysitting a bunch of middle school kids while someone was trying to break into the house and having to defend them with a baseball bat.

 

He doesn’t talk about monsters, or secret government labs, or tunnels full of evil underneath his hometown. He’s not sure if he’s more afraid of getting thrown in a psych ward or getting shot by the FBI. But he keeps his mouth shut about the shit that matters.

 

Learning to become a therapist involves going through a lot of therapy. He knows it’s not as helpful as it could be, since he’s not telling the full truth, but at least it’s something.

 

***

 

“Harrington? Holy shit!”

 

Steve looks up from the old fashioned in his hand, in the dim lighting of the club, and he’s face to face with the ghost of Billy Hargrove he’s seen on the subway and convinced himself he was imagining.

 

“Billy?” He raises an eyebrow.

 

“How the fuck are you, dude?” Billy is smiling. His face is bright, and open, and happy in a way that is frankly a little scary. Maybe he’s on something? This is definitely not the Billy that Steve remembers.

 

And then he’s pulling Steve into an awkward half hug. Jabbering a mile a minute. Asking if Steve’s just visiting or if he lives here now, and _jesus, are you gay? That’s wild._

 

It’s a fair question. They are standing by the bar at Legacy 21 on a Tuesday night. It is emphatically a gay space. Steve was supposed to be wingmanning for Emmet. He apparently did too good of a job, because Emmet ditched him to go blow some guy in the bathroom half an hour ago.

 

“Yeah. I mean I guess. I’m gay, bi, whatever,” Steve shrugs.

 

“I always wondered.” Billy smiles. “I mean, that hair isn’t the most subtle thing I’ve ever seen.”

 

“My hair is great.”

 

“Nobody’s contesting that.” Billy fucking winks. Steve isn’t sure that he’s awake. This can’t be real.

 

A thin latino guy with chin-length hair walks up to them. Slots himself against Billy like he belongs there and gives Steve a once over that is nothing short of icy.

 

“Julian, this is Steve, we were friends back in high school.”

 

Friends. Not exactly the word Steve might use. Then again, maybe it’s not the sort of thing you tell your boyfriend. This is the guy who I once punched bloody, and we seem to be pretending that never happened.

 

“Hi Steve.” Julian says flatter than a day old club soda.

 

“Nice to meet you.” Steve forces a smile.

 

“Babe, I wanna dance.” Julian tugs at Billy’s shirt, trying to coax him out onto the floor.

 

“Yeah, yeah, gimmie one second here.” Billy waves at the bartender. “Can I get a Schlitz and a pen?”

 

Billy pays cash and scrawls something on a bar napkin, that he proceeds to shove into Steve’s pocket.

 

“Call me sometime, dude. We should totally grab a drink or whatever.”

 

Then Billy is gone, fast as he appeared. He’s out on the less than crowded dance floor, Julian pressed close against him, kissing him, grinding against his thigh. Julian stops short of making direct eye contact with Steve while he’s doing it. But it’s an obvious display. A declaration of, _this is mine and you can fuck right off._

 

Like Steve would want anything to do with Billy Hargrove. He’d sooner chew on some glass shards.

 

He pays his tab and leaves Emmet to whatever form of random sex that’s taking so long. He goes home to his cold apartment. His empty bed. He watches the news until it’s much too late, and his eyes are burning, and he can’t keep them open, before finally surrendering to exhaustion.

 

***

 

Steve is running through the woods. Tripping on roots and rocks. A damsel in distress, looking over his shoulder, into the long shadows. He can hear the growling. The alien snarls. They’re coming for him. They’re coming for him faster than he can ever hope to run.

 

He stumbles into a moonlit clearing. Lungs burning from exertion. It feels a lot like failure when a heavy mass collides with him and knocks him face down into the musty dirt and decaying leaves.

 

The beast howls, warbling and awful. Signaling that it’s caught dinner. Or maybe something more sinister. Claws rip across his back. Slashing at his clothes, scratching skin. Pinpricks of blood trickle out.

 

Teeth. That horrible, putrid flower-bloom of a mouth suctions down around his neck, forcing him up, onto his hands and knees.

 

He can feel its skin. Leathery like a shark. Slippery like a slug. Heavy. It’s so heavy. His arms are shaking.

 

 _Please_. He whispers. He’s not sure if he’s asking for it to stop, or for it to end quickly. What he’s asking for doesn’t matter. The beast has him in a vice grip. It’s mouth pulsing, squeezing at his throat and the sides of his neck, spiny fangs digging into his flesh. It’s hips begin to piston. Fast and rough, chasing the primal drive to consummate caught prey.

 

The blunt head of its cock slides between his thighs. Prehensile. Searching for the target. It’s not long before it slides home. It fucks into him with feral brutality. Forcing its way as deep as possible. It burns. Feels like a splintered baseball bat. He’s filthy. Split open. Degraded.

 

Steve wakes up in tangled sheets. Heart racing. It’s easy to rut against the mattress like a kid who doesn’t know any better. He comes like that. Face down. Shaking. Probably crying a little bit.

 

As the urgency ebbs away, leaves him tired and despondent, he wonders if maybe he just needs to get laid. Maybe he needs to find a big, strong man to pin him to a wall and destroy him. Maybe that would make the dreams go away for a little while.

 

Maybe he should call Billy Hargrove.

 

***

 

Billy lives in a small apartment that’s a little far south for Steve to feel completely safe. He takes a bus from the train station to Billy’s block, even though it’s not too long of a walk.

 

It’s clear when Billy sits him down on the couch and goes to get them some beers, this is not just Billy’s apartment. There are photos of him and Julian thumbtacked to the walls. Pictures of large family gatherings, and children that must be Julian’s relatives. Steve feels dirty just sitting there, even though nothing has happened. He’s been cheated on. He’s never been the other person.

 

Billy puts on a record and sits down on the couch next to Steve, talking about music, and punk shows, and drugs. He talks about times he got _so fucked up, bro_. Times that seem like every weekend. Every day that he’s not working in the kitchen at some local pizza place. He doesn’t say anything about Julian. He doesn’t ask if Steve is seeing anybody. He doesn’t ask anything about Steve in general. He just gets closer and closer every time he sits down after getting them another round from the refrigerator.

 

He closes the space between them until his arm is on the couch behind Steve’s shoulders, and Steve can feel his breath, and it would be so easy to just turn and kiss him.

 

Instead, Steve says, “So Julian lives here.”

 

Even the simple act of voicing the obvious is ice water running down Steve’s spine. Billy pulls away a little. Still smiling so friendly and easy.

 

“Yeah. We’re roommates.”

 

“Really seemed like you guys were something else.”

 

“Nah. I mean, we hook up sometimes, but it’s not like… that serious.”

 

Steve just looks at him. Looks through him, past the layers of pretension. Despite what people said about him in high school, Steve isn’t stupid. He shouldn’t have come here. This is all a colossally bad idea.

 

“I should go.” He says, not getting up.

 

“Why? You just got here.” Billy puts a hand on his thigh.

 

“Because I’m not interested in helping someone cheat on their partner.”

 

“It’s not like that.” Billy’s hovering, lips almost brushing against Steve’s cheek. “For real, man. He’s not my boyfriend.”

 

“Are you sure he knows that?” Steve makes himself stand up, shake Billy off. He doesn’t leave, though. He takes his beer and walks to the cracked open window to light a cigarette.

 

Billy follows him. His broad chest presses against Steve’s back. His arms wind around Steve’s waist. He smells like leather, and sweat, and cigarettes.

 

“C’mon, baby. Tell me you haven’t always wondered what we’d be like… I know I have. Always wanted to touch you. Make you squirm and moan my name…”

 

Steve might lean back for just a moment. Just to feel the warmth of another human. It’s not very often that people get close enough to hold him. He usually doesn’t allow it.

 

“I’m just—like—not super comfortable with the situation. I’m sorry.” Steve pulls away again. This time Billy lets him go.

 

“It’s cool. Whatever.” His expression falters for a moment, slipping towards disappointment, maybe anger, before snapping back into the smile. “You smoke weed?”

 

“Sure. Sometimes.”

 

“Let’s get toasted.”

 

***

 

It’s weird. Being friends with Billy. Smoking weed with him on the weekends. Steve even lets Billy drag him to a couple of concerts. Well. Concert is a strong word. They’re grunge punk shows in people’s garages. But they’re still kinda fun. It’s a disruption of the routine.

 

Steve figures Billy will stop inviting him places before too long—since he’s not putting out. But Billy doesn’t stop calling him. Leaving voicemails. Asking what he’s doing. Even showing up randomly at Steve’s apartment on weeknights because he _just needed to leave the house._

 

He doesn’t talk about Julien. But their relationship seems tumultuous. Like it involves a lot of shouting, and cold shouldering, and lying. Sometimes the phone rings and there’s a flat voice asking if Billy’s there, and then Steve’s pretends not to hear the whispered argument after he hands the phone to Billy and lights a cigarette out on the balcony.

 

Steve has never understood why people cling to unhappiness. He didn’t understand why his parents did it. He was gutted to think Nancy did it. That she stayed with him while wishing things were different. The security of having someone to lean on doesn’t seem worth the cost of emotional entrapment.

 

Then again, Steve is a recluse. He’s always been alone. Learned that lonely was preferable to whatever attention his parents might give him—because it was only yelling, or pointed criticism, or guilt. No upside to human interaction. Better to just get absorbed in a book, or a record, or a game, and pretend you’re somewhere else. Someone else. Someone that’s happy. Someone who has a degree of control over their life.

 

He hasn’t dated anyone seriously since Nancy. There have been other girls. A few guys. It always fizzles out after a few months. He’s pretty convinced he’s not the sort of person who is capable of falling in love. At least, not anymore. He’s too fucked up and he’s too aware of how fucked up he is.

 

***

 

“You’re like, a lot different than you used to be.” Steve exhales a cloud of skunky smoke into the night air.

 

They’re sitting in Billy’s junky car, in a Burger King parking lot. Stoned and eating french fries. It’s all so mundane.

 

“How do you mean?” Billy’s fiddling with the radio. Smiling, sleepy and relaxed.

 

“I mean you’re a lot less of a dick.”

 

“Oh,” Billy snorts. “Well, we really didn’t hang out that much, man. You were kind of a dick too. You punched me in the face.”

 

“You broke a plate over my head.”

 

“Shit. Did I? I’m sorry.”

 

“You don’t remember?” Steve’s brow furrows.

 

Billy’s quiet for a second. “Not really. Fights kinda all blur together. I got into it a lot back then.”

 

“Yeah. You did.”

 

“Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree until it does, I guess.” Billy shrugs. “But I maintain, I was sometimes perfectly nice.”

 

“I’ll take your word for that.”

 

“You’re different now too.” Billy slumps back in his seat, grinning at Steve easy as always. “Not Mr. Popularity anymore.”

 

“Being Mr. Popularity sucks.”

 

“It does. And being ready to fight everyone all the time sucks. It’s better up here. In such a big city, with so many people, you can be whoever you wanna be. You know?”

 

“Yeah. It’s a relief.”

 

Steve passes the joint. Watches Billy inhale and blow out a silky cloud. He’s beautiful. Especially now, without the stupid mullet. Face shaved clean. It’s paradoxical, how he looks younger now than he did back in high school. Then again, life at twenty-four is probably less stressful for him than it was at seventeen. He doesn’t talk about the father who beat him, or his crappy home life, but Steve _knows_. Billy came here to escape, just like Steve did, even if it was for slightly different reasons.

 

The main point of divergence seems to be that Billy got better and Steve is still wallowing.

 

***

 

Steve is pinned to an exam table in a white room, bright lights shining down, blinding him. He’s naked. Cold. Claws bite into his shoulders. The horrible creature on top of him blooms, all teeth and malice, screaming, ancient, full of a wrath that the human mind can never hope to comprehend.

 

Vines whip out from underneath the table, curling around Steve’s wrists and throat. Squeezing until he’s dizzy.

 

Maybe he’s about to die. Maybe that would be release.

 

The demogorgon drags its claws down his chest. Rending flesh. Clattering against bone. Steve screams. Vines plunge into his mouth. Silencing him.

 

_Shut up and I won’t hurt you._

 

The monster grabs his legs. Forces them apart. He chokes on the vines, throat constricting, gagging as he tries to cry. The burn of something thick pushing into him, dry and throbbing, is all too familiar. It’s so big. Inescapable. Ruinous and all encompassing.

 

_You can never tell anyone about this. Nobody would believe you. Do you want them to know what a sissy you are? You’re enjoying this._

 

The beast thrusts. Harsh. Fast. Steve is hard and leaking. Humiliated. Degraded. Usually he’s face down. He doesn’t have to look at what’s doing this to him.

 

He tries to close his eyes, but it doesn’t work. He’s still staring at teeth. Straight white teeth. A mean smile. Hand around his neck, choking him, skin slapping against skin, the smell of wood chips and sawdust…

 

Steve jerks awake shivering. He can’t stop shivering. He doesn’t know where he is. What’s happening. It takes a minute to realize he fell asleep on the couch. He’s cold because he doesn’t have a blanket and the window’s open.

 

He’s in his own apartment, miles and miles away from Hawkins. He’s safe. Probably.

 

***

 

“Uh… hey man.” Billy’s got a backpack slung over one shoulder. There are dark circles under his eyes. He smells like whiskey.

 

It’s ten o’clock in the morning on a Saturday and Billy looks like he didn’t sleep.

 

“Hey.” Steve opens the door, and waves Billy in.

 

“Um… I know this is sudden and all, but could I maybe crash on your couch a couple days? You’re the only person I know who doesn’t have a bunch of roommates and I… well…”

 

“Julian finally dumped you?”

 

“Yeah.” Billy deflates. “Something like that. It’s his name on the lease. So y’know.”

 

“I get it, man. No worries.” Steve claps him on the shoulder, feeling like an awkward uncle or something.

 

The easiest thing is to run to the kitchen and grab them both a beer. Billy settles down on the couch with the backpack full of all his worldly possessions, and proceeds to slowly relax. He goes from shell shocked to laughing at Steve’s bad jokes in about half an hour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from the [IDKHBTFM song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mvJjmWTg7Qo). Go listen to it. It's the most Harringrove thing I've ever heard. 
> 
> I have most of this done? Unless it decides to keep getting longer on me. We finna see!


	2. I Wish I Had A Bullet Big Enough To Fucking Kill The Sun

“So wait. This Billy guy is living with you.” Emmet looks nothing short of exasperated. They’re sitting in a coffee shop near campus. Or rather, Steve was sitting here, trying to do homework. Then Emmet plopped down and demanded to know where the fuck Steve has been (his apartment), why he isn’t answering the phone (it’s been off the hook to stop Julian from calling twelve times a day), and why exactly some grubby punk kid answered the door and didn’t offer anything more than _Steve’s at class or some shit_ as an explanation to his presence before closing the door in Emmet’s face.

 

“I mean. It’s complicated.” Steve shrugs. He’s not the best liar.

 

“I didn’t even know you were dating someone, you bitch!” Emmet kicks him under the table.

 

“I’m not. We’re just friends.”

 

“Oh, so you’d let me crash at your apartment for three weeks and not complain about it?” Emmet rolls his eyes. Ever the dramatic primadonna. He’s such a stereotype. It’s physically painful. Short. Blonde. Thin. Cat-eyed glasses. Wears scarves, tailored blazers and tasteful pumps. He’s the gayest person Steve knows, the least he could do is be supportive.

 

“That’s not the point.”

 

“What’s the point, then?”

 

“I don’t know he’s–he doesn’t have anywhere else to go. He’s a nice guy. He doesn’t deserve to be on the street.”

 

“Steven.”

 

“Emmet.”

 

“Is this man unemployed?”

 

“Well, no.”

 

“So tell him to pick up a freaking newspaper and look for a new apartment.”

 

“It’s fine. Like, having somebody around doesn’t bother me? He’s not inconveniencing me.”

 

“Said the doormat.”

 

“Shut up.”

 

“Sweetheart, I know you. You’re the least assertive person in existence. I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

 

Emmet is right, of course. It’s a bad idea to feed a stray. Steve knows that. He knows that letting Billy stay on his couch rent free is an active disaster. No sense of boundaries. No timeline set up of when Billy has to leave. Steve’s a fucking mark. A chump. He’s being taken advantage of. He knows that.

 

But also, he doesn’t pay the rent. His dad does. It doesn’t affect Steve’s life in a material sense if the water bill is higher, or he needs more groceries than he used to. Billy cleans up after himself. He’s always asking if there’s something he can do to help.

 

It’s nice to come home to a place that has lights on, and music playing. It makes Steve feel _safe_ in a way that he hasn’t since… ever? Billy is strong. Billy could punch somebody out cold if he wanted to. Steve falls asleep easier than he has in years.

 

“Listen. I know this is like… I know it looks bad.” Steve sighs. “I’ll do something about it. For sure. Just like. Not yet.”

 

“You’re in love with him.” Emmet sighs. Daring to look all dreamy and delighted.

 

“You’re high.”

 

“You’re gonna propose to him with a silver cock ring before the end of the month.”

 

***

 

Billy is usually cooking something when Steve comes back from class. Today, the apartment smells like oregano and fresh basil. Billy is stirring a large bubbling pot. The oven is on.

 

Of course, Billy isn’t wearing pants. He’s just in a baggy t-shirt and boxers, hair all messy, cigarette dangling from his lips, glass of whiskey in his free hand. It’s an interesting juxtaposition. Alcoholic dad and neurotic housewife all rolled into one package.

 

It feels a little too much like _family_ for Steve to be entirely comfortable. But he’s also inexorably drawn to it. Something about Billy is warm and comforting. Like Steve might be able to thaw himself out if he pressed up against it for long enough.

 

“Whatcha making?” Steve leans against the counter. Drops his backpack on the floor and reaches for the glass in Billy’s hand. Billy lets him take it. Sip it. Laughs when Steve inevitably makes a face because room temperature Evan Williams is gross.

 

“We got: basil crusted baked chicken, lima beans, and some italian wedding soup.”

 

“Who’s getting married?”

 

“Us, obviously.”

 

Billy says it so deadpan, Steve isn’t sure he should laugh. He does laugh, of course. Because it has to be a joke. They’re not dating. They’re not fucking. It’s 1989 and two men can’t marry each other even if they wanted to.

 

“Man, shoulda told me to pick up some champagne.” Steve grabs a beer from the fridge. Just kind of hovers while Billy cooks.

 

He’s offered to help before, but Billy is a tyrant in the kitchen. Says that Steve doesn’t chop the onions right. It’s better to just let him do his thing.

 

“So I was thinking—you’ve got most weekends free, right?" Billy tosses a handful of spices into the soup, stirs, looking at the broth intently.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“We should take a trip or something. My friends are always talking about the UP. It’s not a long drive. It might even still be warm enough to camp.”

 

“I’m not camping in October, dude.”

 

“Don’t be a baby. I’ll keep you warm.” Billy wags his eyebrows. “Skin to skin is the best way to transfer body heat, you know. We could zip our sleeping bags together.”

 

“Or we would like, go to the Dells or maybe go somewhere—and I know this is crazy but hear me out—where it’s not thirty fucking degrees outside. I could like, buy us tickets to Florida or something. We could go to Disneyland.”

 

“Are you five?”

 

“Roller Coasters are still fun. You just have no sense of childlike wonder.”

 

Billy sticks his tongue out before dipping a spoon into the soup. He holds the spoon out to Steve, hand underneath it to catch any drips. Of course, Steve obliges. Of course, it’s fucking delicious.

 

“Damn. When are you starting your own restaurant?”

 

“Shut up.” Billy smiles. It’s that open, truly happy smile, that still looks out of place on him.

 

Steve’s almost jealous. Wishes he could be that way. That he could just get over himself, or ignore all the weird bullshit crawling around in his brain. But Steve’s always been a little too obsessive. Can’t let stuff go. Just stews and stews until he feels nauseous.

 

Billy turns off the stove. Checks on what’s in the oven. They have a couple of drinks before it’s ready. Then they sit down at Steve’s little kitchen table and eat the dinner that Billy cooked, laughing, listening to some noisy punk record. It feels domestic, like nothing else Steve’s ever experienced.

 

He likes it more than he should. He knows he can’t trust it. He’s watched Billy lie to other people often enough to know better. Billy’s probably lying to him about all sorts of shit. It’s probably compulsive.

 

It’s such a pretty little fantasy, though. Steve can’t help indulging.

 

***

 

Steve knows he’s depressed.

 

It’s not even a self diagnosis. Therapists and psychiatrists have told him that he suffers from clinical depression and generalized anxiety disorder. He takes pills for it. Fluoxetine every day. Alprazolam for when it gets really bad. When his skin feels too tight and he’s banging around inside his brain like he’s trying for a shipwreck. There are plenty of jagged rocks he could throw himself onto. Plenty of reasons to feel like a worthless waste of space.

 

He tried to tell his mom a few years ago. The day after Thanksgiving, when his dad was on a business trip. He knew better than to try to tell his dad. He’d just get a comment about how kids these days are so high strung, and it’s all a bullshit scam invented by Big Pharma.

 

His mom sat there at the kitchen table, her hair pinned up and immaculate as always, sipping her coffee with two creams and two sugars.

 

“You aren’t depressed, Steven. You don’t have anything to be sad about.”

 

“Oh… um… a doctor told me—”

 

“You must have been lying. Making things up. You’ve always had such a fanciful imagination. You don’t know what it’s like to have real problems. You’re inventing reasons to be upset.”

 

“OK.” Steve sighed and looked down at the floor. He shouldn’t have been surprised at the status quo. The way so many of their conversations deteriorated into a one-sided lecture.

 

“You should get a job. You must have too much free time.”

 

“Sure, Mom. That’s a good idea.”

 

And that was the end of it.

 

In his heavier moments, he wonders if she’s right. If he’s making it all up. Objectively, he has a nice life. He doesn’t have to worry about money, or where he’s staying, or where his next meal is coming from. He’s a well-off white man in a society that caters to him. Plenty of people have it much worse. What right does he have to feel anything other than contentment?

 

Other times, he just hates his mother and wishes he had enough spine to call her a frigid bitch to her face. He wishes he didn’t need his dad’s money, so he could sever all ties without consequence.

 

Once he has his own practice, his own financial stability, he figures he will cut them out of his life. Not like it would take much. He hasn’t seen either of them in two years. Maybe he’d take a trip back to Indiana, just so he could tell them that their only son is a cocksucker over a dinner he paid for. Just so he could tell them there will never be any grandchildren, that he never wants to speak to them again, and he’s going to put them in a nursing home he will never visit at the earliest opportunity.

 

In all reality, Steve knows it’s a petty daydream. He will never be brave enough. He’ll just let things naturally fade, rather than cause a fuss. Above all, Steve hates to cause a fuss. He’d much rather suffer than inconvenience anybody.

 

***

 

Steve might be used to walking into his own apartment and hearing Fugazi, or The Price Is Right or some other form of sound pollution. What he doesn’t usually hear is moaning.

 

He has to blink a few times for it to even register the scene. Billy on the couch, with some guy in his lap. Both naked. Bodies slapping together.

 

The guy notices Steve and stops moving. He’s got bright pink hair and a face full of piercings. He smiles, real wide and breathless.

 

“Hi.”

 

Billy’s head snaps to look at Steve. Guilt. Shock. Maybe panic? His voice doesn’t betray any emotion when he says, “oh, sorry man. Thought you’d be at class for a while…”

 

“Do you wanna join?” Pink Hair licks his lips. “Billy never told me his roommate was so cute.”

 

Steve turns around and walks back into the hall, closing the door behind him. He walks quickly towards the staircase. Down three flights to the ground floor.

 

He doesn’t feel any particular emotions boiling in his gut. He’s calm. He’s utterly blank. He hears the footsteps behind him, but doesn’t wanna deal with it. He hopes if he keeps walking, out the door and down the street, he won’t have to.

 

Billy catches up with him about halfway to the bodega on the corner. Has the audacity to grab Steve’s shoulder.

 

“Dude, wait up. Don’t just—are you pissed at me?”

 

“Why would I be pissed?” Steve doesn’t recognize his own voice. Except he does. In times of emotional stress, he becomes his mother. Polite detachment with a streak of passive aggression three miles wide. “I just wanted to give the two of you some privacy.”

 

Billy’s staring at him. Shirtless in the chill of late fall. Not wearing shoes. Pants zipped but unbuttoned.

 

He can still hear Pink Hair whimpering. _Billy. Billy. Billy. Oh my god, Billy._ The tape won’t stop rewinding and repeating. Making his chest hurt. Making it feel like there’s not enough oxygen in the lungfuls of air he’s been taking too rapidly.

 

“Look—I know it’s a dick move to fuck someone on your couch when you’re letting me crash and you’ve been so nice and everything. I’m an asshole. I’m sorry. I told Craig we couldn’t but he’s… well he’s kinda living in a squat right now and he really just wanted to be somewhere with central heating for a little bit and—”

 

“You are allowed to do whatever you want, Billy. Though I would appreciate a little warning if you plan to bring someone home.” Steve tries to swallow the lump in his throat. It’s not working. “We can discuss this later. I don’t think it’s a great idea to leave your friend alone in my apartment.”

 

Billy rocks back and forth on his feet. Runs his fingers through his hair.

 

“I can get rid of him. We can talk about it. I know um—I’m not the best at talking? But I don’t… fuck, man, I don’t want this to like become a huge deal and for everything to get all messed up…”

 

“I’m not gonna kick you out or something. It’s fine.” Steve starts walking again. “I’ll see you later.”

 

Billy doesn’t follow him past the corner. Probably due to his lack of footwear and the icy pavement. Steve doesn’t know where he’s going. He just walks.

 

He walks to the lake and stands on the cold, sandy beach, looking out at the water.

 

It’s worse that Billy is sorry. Because that means he was banking on not getting caught. It means he knew Steve would be hurt, and he did it anyway. Not that Steve has a real right to be upset, beyond it being his couch. He can only be upset about the potential stains on his furniture. Not the fact that Billy is fucking someone else. Billy isn’t his. Steve has no claim.

 

***

 

Steve is usually good at avoiding people. He knows Billy’s work schedule. He tries to not be in the apartment when Billy isn’t at work. He tells himself he’s just catching up with friends. Having drinks with Emmet. Doing homework in the library. Going to the movies by himself.

 

If it were anyone else, even a different person living on the couch, Steve would have no trouble successfully becoming a ghost. But Billy is good at fucking up the usual flow of things.

 

He keeps switching his work schedule and is there with wide puppy eyes to stare as Steve strolls towards his room with headphones on. He still makes food and keeps it warm until Steve gets home. He eventually finds Steve’s habitual coffee shop and sits down at the table with him and tries to present him with a cookie, saying, _please talk to me, dude._

 

“OK.” Steve takes the cookie and places it to the side. “What would you like to talk about?”

 

He’s still doing that thing. The weird formal speech that he falls into when he’s upset. But he’s being polite. Making eye contact even though its uncomfortable.

 

“I dunno. Wanna tell me why it seems like you’ve fallen off the face of the earth?” Billy’s hands twitch nervously in the air in front of him. “Like—I know you’re mad at me. I want to fix it.”

 

“It’s fine.” Steve forces a pleasant expression. “Really. I’ve just been busy.”

 

“That’s bullshit. You were never this busy before. Just like—yell at me or something? Tell me I’m a bastard. Tell me what I could do to not be a bastard again. Besides the obvious, I mean. I won’t bring anyone else back to your place.”

 

Steve’s stomach twists. He doesn’t know what Billy could do. Anything Steve would want is unreasonable.

 

“I’m sorry,” Steve sighs. “I just… I don’t know.”

 

“C’mon.” Billy nudges his foot under the table. “You’re supposed to be the shrink here.”

 

“Yeah, that means I know how to ask other people about their feelings, not talk about mine.”

 

Billy laughs. It’s a beautiful sound. Steve wants to hear it over and over.

 

“I would definitely appreciate you not bringing anyone over.” Steve says. Because it’s true, even if it’s not the root of the issue.

 

“Can do, my man. Anything else?”

 

“I mean… not that you do this anyway, but um, if you’re fucking someone I don’t really wanna hear about it? Just makes me feel like more of a sad sack, y’know.”

 

“Yeah. Totally.” Billy chews that one over for a moment. “So you’re like—not dating anyone or anything, right? Not that little blonde kid…?”

 

“Emmet? Hell no. We’d kill each other.”

 

“OK. Cool.” Billy nods. Leans back in his chair like he’s relaxing. “I’m also definitely not dating Craig, by the way. He lives in New Orleans most of the time. He was just visiting.”

 

“Cool.”

 

Steve reaches for the peace offering cookie and takes a bite. It’s good. Probably not as good as the cookies Billy would make. But still good.

 

***

 

Steve is face down in the cloying dirt. Crying as claws dig into his wrists. Teeth sink into his shoulder. His hips jerk as he squirms, trying to escape the repeated invasion. That thick pulsing cock, dragging across his prostate. Twisting the pain with confused pleasure.

 

Sawdust.

 

It’s not just dirt, it’s mixed with sawdust. It’s not dark out. There’s light streaming in through the dusty window. If he could just get free. He could run. But nobody can hear him screaming over the grinding buzz of the wood chipper. He stopped trying to scream a while ago. Now he’s just crying quietly. Pathetically.

 

The beast on top of him shudders and goes still. He hopes for a moment his suffering is over. He’s blissfully empty. But then he’s flipped onto his back like a rag doll. Another monster settles on top of him. Choking him. Thrusting into him even rougher. Deeper. He’s slick with his previous tormentor’s release. That doesn’t make it any easier. He tries to shut his eyes.

 

_Look at me you little bitch._

 

He doesn’t want to. He can’t breathe. He blinks. Wet blurry vision focuses on that mean smile. Straight white teeth.

 

“Steve? Steve, c’mon man, wake up…”

 

Steve jolts. Dizzy. Hyperventilating. Heart pounding. Unsure where he is.

 

There’s a familiar face leaning over him, brow furrowed in concern. He’s reaching out before he can stop himself. Curling his hand around Billy’s thick forearm.

 

“Billy?” He’s gasping like he just sprinted a mile.

 

“Yeah, buddy. I’m here.”  Billy sinks down, sitting on the edge of the bed. The mattress dips under his weight. It’s an instinct to roll towards him.

 

“What—what happened—?”

 

“You were, uh, screaming. Or more like, yelping maybe. I mean you kinda whimper in your sleep a lot, but this sounded like a pretty bad one.”

 

Steve tries to swallow the lurch of panic. He’s still shaking. Fighting to not curl into a ball and just shiver away into nothingness.

 

“I’m sorry,” he gasps. He doesn’t know what else to do.

 

“It’s fine, dude. I used to have nightmares a lot. I wasn’t sure if I should wake you up or not but um…. yeah. Are you like, good?”

 

What a loaded question. Steve tries to relax. Calm his breathing. Push the flashes of disturbing imagery from his mind.

 

“Yeah. I’m fine.” His voice is shaky. Maybe he should have used the future tense. _I will be fine. I’m always fine eventually._

 

“OK. Well, if you need anything, you know where to find me.” Billy doesn’t stand up. Steve is still holding onto him.

 

Some twisted part of him wants Billy to stay. Wants Billy’s weight on top of him. Steve wants to do something with the reckless energy that’s still pulsing through him. He wants to get hurt. Be split open and used. He wants to shudder and cry and relive all the worst things about sexuality. At this point, that’s what’s comfortable. That’s what he knows.

 

It’s not fair to ask for that. So he lets go. He rolls onto his side, facing the wall, and waits for Billy to leave. And Billy does leave, eventually. It’s easier to ignore his hesitation than to dissect it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I have most of this done" hahaHAHA. This has grown like 8k in the past week. RIP.
> 
> Chapter titles are from AJJ songs because those trashy desert punks capture the essence of anxiety like nobody else.


	3. If My Ugly Had A Shape It Would Be A Spiral

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I would like to reiterate that **Boy This Is A Story About Rape Trauma**. We gonna talk about past rape when dear Steve was quite underage. If that is a thing you cannot cope with, please do not ride this ride. I cherish you and want the best for you.

Billy usually spends Saturdays cleaning the apartment. He always asks before he throws anything out. Steve doesn’t really care about most of the Stuff he’s accumulated. He figures it’s better to say _yeah whatever_ and let Billy toss it, or donate it to Goodwill, or give it to one of his friends. There are definitely a bunch of crust punks walking the streets of Chicago in Steve’s old jackets and scarves at this point. He kinda likes that idea.

 

It’s a better use of resources than just letting it sit in the closet. His mom won’t stop sending him “care packages” full of candy and winter clothes as a replacement for actual phone calls or invitations to spend the holidays at home. He used to have more pairs of gloves than any human could hope to wear on a regular basis. It’s nice to have the apartment decluttered.

 

In place of the old stuff that Steve never touched, there’s now a growing pile of Billy’s possessions. It started with little things. A toothbrush. A bottle of generic shampoo next to the fancy shit that Steve buys out of habit. Then came the posters of bands Steve’s never heard of. The box of records and cassette tapes that Billy had been keeping in his car. The hand knitted blanket draped over the back of the couch that Billy’s grandmother apparently made.

 

Really, Steve should have been ready for it. But he’s still blindsided when one morning Billy asks over coffee, “Hey man, you think I could maybe put a mattress in the storage closet? I’ve kinda cleaned out most of the stuff that used to be in there, and your couch is great and all, but a real bed would be nice.”

 

Steve has to blink a few times. Do a little mental calculus. Billy has been here for _months_. He gets mail here. He buys groceries, and has his own cabinet full of food, and usually pays the electric and water bills before Steve can get to them. He’s decorated. He’s bought them new towels and silverware. He fixed the leaky bathroom sink. In a lot of senses, he’s taken more ownership over the apartment and its upkeep than Steve ever did.

 

It totally makes sense for him to want a little space of his own. Steve isn’t using the closet. For some reason, though, it feels like a crossed line. Like if Billy has a proper place to sleep, something is made official. He’s not _crashing_ anymore. He’s just Steve’s actual roommate.

 

“Oh… um…”

 

“It’s totally cool if not,” Billy hurries to reassure him. “Like, my friend just hit me up and told me he wanted to get rid of a mattress and I thought maybe I could use it. If you wanted I could start paying some rent? I know you haven’t let me before but maybe—“

 

“You don’t have to pay rent, dude. I don’t pay rent.” Steve waves his hand. Batting away the very idea of it. “Do whatever you want with the closet.”

 

“Yeah? Are you sure?”

 

“Totally.” Steve nods. Feeling like the ground is made of tissue paper and he’s about to tear through it.

 

***

 

The phone is ringing. It’s a Wednesday night. Billy is working. Steve knows who’s calling. Nancy used to call every week on Wednesday. Since his answering got more sporadic, she’s tapered off a bit. Every couple weeks. Once a month. Every other month. He can’t remember exactly when he last talked to her.

 

He’s not sure what possesses him to pick up the phone. He’s doing it before he realizes.

 

“Hello?”

 

“Steve?” The familiar voice is distant, a little fuzzy over so many miles or phone line. “Wow, you actually answered.”

 

“Yep. Sure did.” There’s a pause. “What’s up?”

 

“Well it’s good to know you’re still alive! Are you coming home for Christmas?”

 

Steve blinks a few times. Christmas. It’s December 19th. He supposes that is a normal line of inquiry. His parents are probably out of town. Billy hasn’t said anything about holiday plans. Neither of them have families to visit. A lot of Steve’s friends don’t. They’re all strays. Too queer and unwilling to be quiet about it. They’re a liability at any gatherings of extended relatives. Emmet got in a shouting match with his aunt last year and got disinvited from all future thanksgivings. It’s easier to just not go home at all.

 

“Um… probably not. I haven’t heard anything from my folks.”

 

“You could stay with us!” Nancy says too quick. “Or Joyce, or Hopper. I’m sure anybody would be happy to put you up. We miss you.”

 

“I’ll think about it.” Steve tries to sound sincere. Probably falls short.

 

Nancy moved back to Hawkins after she finished college. Last he heard, she was working as a receptionist at the elementary school. Maybe she’s lonely and that’s why she still calls, even if he’s an objectively terrible friend.

 

“How are you doing otherwise?” She presses. Trying to shove another log onto the dying conversational fire. “How’s school? Are you seeing anyone?”

 

“I’m good, I guess. School is fine. I’m not really dating.”

 

“I um—heard you got a new roommate.”

 

“Oh?” His heart accelerates.

 

“Max mentioned it when she was over playing games with the boys. She said that uh—Billy has been sending letters from your address.”

 

“Yeah.” Steve’s mouth is dry. “He lives here.”

 

“How is that?” She sounds so tense. Like she’s bracing for something.

 

“Kinda weird, but he’s a good cook. It’s better than living alone.”

 

“That’s good! That’s great that he’s… being nice.”

 

“Oh yeah. He’s a lot more laid back than he used to be. He’s like, cool to hang out with now.”

 

Silence. Not exactly uncomfortable. Not entirely easy. Steve’s never said the word _bisexual_ or _queer_ to Nancy. He can’t help but think it would hurt her feelings. He’s been with enough girls to know it’s not something you mention. Actually, he doesn’t mention it to guys either. Unless they ask. People get weird about it. Figure he’s gonna cheat on them, or something. Doesn’t matter that anyone who gets to know him should understand he’d never cheat. No matter the opportunity presented. It’s just a shitty thing to do.

 

It’s a particular sore spot. Because of Nancy. Maybe it’s part of the reason these conversations are so stilted. He still blames her for his hangups, his inability to stay in a relationship, even if it’s not fair.

 

It happened so many years ago. They were very different people back then. He should be over it. But he’s not.

 

“It’s good to hear your voice,” Nancy says. All wistful. Like she really does miss him.

 

“Yeah. You too, Nance.”

 

“You should look at bus tickets. I’d pitch in. It would be so nice to have you here for the holidays. The kids would be thrilled.”

 

“Yeah, totally.”

 

***

 

On Christmas day, Billy cooks a ham. Mashed potatoes. Green beans. Gravy. A freaking apple pie. It’s way more food than two people could hope to eat. But it’s still nice. Sitting at the table, both wearing horrible sweaters, drinking cognac-spiked eggnog and stuffing their faces. Billy’s sweater is a few sizes too small. It only comes halfway down his forearms and the hem sits a few inches above the waistband of his jeans. The smiling, glittery santa claus face is stretched and warped over Billy’s broad chest.

 

Steve’s sweater has bells on it. All over a Christmas tree, like they’re ornaments. He jingles as he puts away the leftovers and does the dishes. He jingles when he flops down on the couch and sits way too close to Billy, because he’s drunk, and warm, and happy. They watch Star Wars on VHS, get even more blitzed, and smoke a few joints. It’s the best Christmas Steve’s ever had.

 

He’s so relaxed, he doesn’t even realize he’s nodding off, head on Billy’s shoulder.

 

He’s in the woods. Running. Tripping over roots. Being pursued. But he’s laughing. It’s a game. Playing tag with one of the boys who live down the street from his grandparents. The summer air is warm and heavy. Smells like pine and dry leaves.

 

He’s not looking where he’s going, really. He’s looking behind him when he stumbles into a clearing. There’s a little cabin. Maybe more of a shed. It’s someone’s lumber yard. He can see the stump with the axe in it. He can hear a wood chipper sputter and start buzzing. He sees it when he passes on the other side of the cabin. There’s a teenager feeding branches into it. Sweaty and muscular. Steve’s seen the guy around before. At the ice cream parlor. At the park. He smiles and waves.

 

“You lost, kid?”

 

“Nah.” Steve looks over his shoulder again. He didn’t think Jesse was that far behind him. But there’s nobody else stumbling into the clearing.

 

The wood chipper grinds to a halt. The other boy is coming closer. He’s tall. Broad. Almost twice Steve’s size in every conceivable measure.

 

“You’re sure a long way from anything. What’re you doing out here?”

 

“My friend and I were um… exploring.”

 

There’s an uneasy feeling rising in Steve’s chest. He wonders if maybe he should take a step back for every step this guy takes forward. He doesn’t like the way the guy is looking at him.

 

“I don’t see your friend.” The guy raises his eyebrows.

 

Steve doesn’t either. He doesn’t hear any crunching footsteps. He likes this situation less with every passing moment.

 

The door of the cabin swings open. Another guy walks out. Even taller and broader. Must be a little older. He has a beard.

 

“Jones, what the fuck you doing stopping…” he trails off when his eyes settle on Steve. “Well what do we got here?”

 

“Lost kid.”

 

“You a boy or girl?”

 

“I’m a boy,” Steve huffs.

 

“If you say so. That’s some long-ass hair.” The bearded man shrugs. “I guess with a face that pretty, it don’t matter much.”

 

“Why don’t you come inside, kid? We can drive you back to town soon as we’re done here.” The first guy says. Way too close for comfort. He’s got a hand on Steve’s shoulder, squeezing.

 

“I—I’m fine. I’m just gonna walk home—“

 

“Nonsense. You’ll get lost even worse than you are. No telling what you might run across in these woods.”

 

“Yeah, there’s bears,” the bearded man laughs. The guy holding Steve’s shoulder laughs too.

 

Then he’s being shoved towards the cabin.

 

“Wait. No! I don’t—I don’t wanna go in there, let me go!”

 

They don’t listen. They just push him forward. Onto the ground. Face in the dirt and sawdust. The wood chipper roars back to life and the door creaks shut.

 

Steve jolts. Somebody’s holding him. He tries to struggle away. They let him go. He’s hyperventilating. Backed into a corner of his couch as Billy stares at him from the opposite end of it.

 

“Steve? You OK…?” His voice is calm. Steady. Anchoring.

 

Something to focus on while Steve tries to blink away flashes of sensation. Sense memory. He tastes the bitter adrenaline. His eyes prickle.

 

In a lot of ways, PTSD means experiencing the same horror over and over again. All the physiologic responses are present, like the fear memory is actually repeating in real time. He’s shaking. Dizzy.

 

“No. I’m not really OK.” He murmurs. Alcohol still pounding through his system. “I’m not sure I’ve ever been OK.”

 

“Do you wanna talk about it? Or is there anything I can do?”

 

He could tell Billy about the monsters. He’s reasonably sure the apartment isn’t bugged. He checks the seams of the walls and every light fixture periodically. He could tell Billy that there are unimaginable horrors lurking in the darkness. Nightmares from other worlds will sometimes slip through the cracks. Humanity is not alone in the universe. Other creatures just as bloodthirsty and violent as we are wait in the shadows, ready to make us their prey.

 

Instead he says, “I think something happened to me. Like. When I was a little kid. I have these dreams and… it’s the same sort of shit over and over. I think something happened.”

 

“Something like what?” Billy frowns before quickly smoothing his expression. “You don’t have to tell me. If you don’t want to. Just, if it would help, I’ll listen.”

 

Steve chews on his lip. He doesn’t want to say it out loud. Saying it would make it too real. He’s said it to therapists before, in vague terms. He started shivering and having a panic attack and it was mutually decided maybe he should just try to distract himself instead of dwelling on it.

 

He can’t stop dwelling on it. Can’t stop dreaming about it. The worst part is he doesn’t know if it’s real or wholly fabricated by his fucked up brain as an excuse for his sexual and social dysfunction. He has nobody to corroborate it. He never told his parents or grandparents about it. He was too afraid.

 

Sometimes he’s surprised the monsters let him go. Didn’t kill him and hide his body after they were done. He’s not sure if he’s grateful. Maybe dying would have been better.

 

Maybe none of it’s real. Maybe he’s a lot more unstable and crazy than he lets on. Maybe there’s a reason everyone keeps checking in on him. Because he gives the impression that he’s splitting at the seams and about to fall apart at a moment’s notice.

 

He tries to steady his breathing. Bring himself back into the moment. He’s safe. Billy’s here. Nobody is going to hurt him.

 

“I’m sorry,” Steve offers after a few minutes of silence. “I don’t think I can talk about it.”

 

“That’s OK. There’s a lot of shit I don’t really talk about either. Sometimes it’s easier to just pretend it didn’t happen.” Billy runs his fingers through his hair. Lets out a small sigh. Smiles. “On the bright side, it’s a major holiday and I’m not worried about getting my teeth knocked out because Neil drank too much. So all and all, I’m calling tonight a win.”

 

It’s a casual sort of sadness. A comment that implies Billy’s not as close to recovery as he seems. It’s easier to focus on that. Steve can pull himself together if someone else needs him. That’s the only thing that’s gotten him through all these years.

 

“I’m glad we could spend Christmas together. This has been nice.” Steve edges his way back down the couch. Until he’s pressed up against Billy again. Until Billy has an arm draped around him. They stay like that for a while, with Star Wars Episode VI droning on in the background.

 

Steve must fall asleep again. Despite the bitter edge of panic still threatening bile in his throat. He wakes up gently, Billy squeezing his shoulder.

 

“C’mon. It’s time for bed, man.”

 

Steve stands on unsteady feet. Follows Billy like a lost puppy. Billy’s holding his hand. Guiding him towards his bedroom. Steve strips out of his stupid jingle bell sweater. Tosses it into the corner. He falls into bed. Exhausted. Billy hovers. Like he’s going to tuck Steve in and kiss him on the forehead.

 

He’s not expecting Steve to reach out and tug him downwards. He loses his balance. Lands on the bed right next to Steve.

 

“Well, OK then,” he laughs. Soft and private.

 

He wraps his strong arms around Steve. Holds him loose enough that it’s comfortable. Tight enough to be a comfort. Steve can stop clenching his jaw. Let his spine relax. Drift off hoping for darkness.

 

***

 

Billy snores. It’s not loud. Just a small snuffling. He looks beautiful in the morning sunlight. Dirty blonde hair reflecting like spun gold. Resting on Steve’s pillow like he belongs there. Maybe he does.

 

Steve can’t help the anxiety. The fear twisting in his stomach. There are so many reasons not to roll over and wake Billy up with a kiss. What if everything gets fucked up. What if Billy’s not into him like that. What if Billy leaves. What if Billy sleeps around. What if he gets angry or frustrated because Steve’s sex drive is generally pathetic and he’s in the mood twice a month on a good month. He can’t help it. The anxiety meds killed his already low desire for physical contact. If he tries to force it, he has problems getting hard. But that’s weird to people. Guys are supposed to want it all the time.

 

It’s at least better with dudes than with girls. Because then Steve can just get fucked and sometimes they don’t care if he gets off. Most of them do take it personally. But some of them don’t. Girls get upset when he can’t fuck them. They say it makes them feel unattractive, even if he spends half an hour eating them out. They dump him.

 

Everyone dumps him eventually. What does he really have to offer besides an overactive brain and a martyr complex?

 

Billy stirs. Steve should get up. Make coffee or breakfast. Do something to get himself out of bed before Billy’s cognizant. But he doesn’t want to. The civil war inside his head has once again led to decision paralysis. He makes most choices in life by simply not making a choice.

 

He’s stock still as Billy’s eyes flutter open. Holding his breath like it matters. Like the simple act of exhaling might break the moment.

 

“Good morning,” Billy’s sleepy smile would be heart melting if Steve weren’t such a nervous wreck.

 

“Good morning,” he parrots back. Trying not to choke.

 

“Dude, your bed is so fucking comfortable.” Billy stretches. Rolling his body. Twisting his spine to one side then the other. “Any time you feel like company, just let me know. Christ, my mattress is a piece of shit:”

 

 _Any time._ What about all the time? Steve’s heart is pounding, a rabbit thumping against his rib cage, signaling imminent danger.

 

Billy ends up on his side. Facing Steve. They’re breathing the same air. Almost close enough to touch. There’s a buzzing in Steve’s skin. Like their atoms are meeting, swapping electrons, building up a charge.

 

He’s not brave enough to lunge forward the way he wants to. They just stare at each other. Tension thick. Billy’s breathing faster than usual. He’s not smiling anymore.

 

“Um… not to be like, weird. But did you leading me back here mean something?”

 

Oh god oh god _oh god._

 

“Maybe.” Steve shrugs. Noncommittal as always.

 

Billy lets out a long breath. Raises his eyebrows. “Anyone ever tell you that you’re fucking hard to read?”

 

Steve laughs. Abrupt. Tension suddenly broken. “Yeah,” he says after a moment. “Yeah that tends to be the major complaint filed against me. Cold. Distant. Withdrawn. You know.”

 

“I wouldn’t say cold. Well. Maybe hot and cold,” Billy reaches out. Rests his hand on Steve’s waist. “I don’t wanna do anything you’re not into. I just don’t know what you’re into. So like, please tell me.”

 

“I um… I think I’m into you.”

 

“Yeah?” Billy is already pressing up against him.

 

“Yeah.” Steve’s voice comes out shivery. He can feel Billy’s cock, hard and hot against his hip. This is a bad idea. They should talk about it first. Steve should tell him how difficult this will be. But he doesn’t want to. Because then Billy will run away. Nobody wants Steve the way he is. So he’ll force himself into the same mould he’s tried and failed to fit so many times.

 

He’s not expecting the kiss to be so gentle. He always imagined Billy would be somewhat feral. He would claw and bite and _take._ He figured it would be fast and rough. That Billy would get off on violence and degradation. That’s how the men who chase Steve usually are. They sense he’s prey. Skinny, nervous, twitchy, he moves like a deer in the forest. Begging to be hunted. There must be something in his face that betrays his perpetual victimhood.

 

Billy cups Steve’s chin. Runs a thumb across his cheek. Cradles him. Lets their lips barely brush together. His breath hitches. When their tongues touch, he groans like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted instead of sour morning breath. Steve feels it too. The heady, dizzy, rush of infatuation. Of wanting so long and finally having.

 

“Fuck,” Billy whispers.

 

He rolls on top of Steve. Covering him. It’s a comforting weight that Steve can go lax under. Billy’s still kissing him. Fingers threaded into Steve’s hair, holding the back of his head. Rocking his hips so slow. Their cocks drag against each other through layers of cloth. Steve is rock hard. There’s no question. He’s not worried about maintaining it. Too distracted with the feel of Billy’s mouth. The overwhelming body heat.

 

“What would you like?” Billy’s voice is still low. Edging on breathy. “How do you wanna be touched?”

 

Steve blinks. That’s not a question he’s ever been asked before. He’s not sure how to answer. He doesn’t know what answer Billy wants to hear. That’s what sex is about. It’s what other people want.

 

“Um… this is good.” He says because it is. He likes this. Grinding together. Billy on top of him. He likes being able to see Billy’s face.

 

“Works for me. Can I take off your boxers?”

 

“Sure.”

 

Billy shifts. Just enough to tug down the waistband of Steve’s underwear, then his own. Skin to skin is better. Billy’s sticky. Excited. Twitching.

 

He wraps his large, spit slick hand around them both. The slide of friction intensifies. Billy thrusting a little faster. Groaning. Supporting himself on one arm. Staring into Steve’s eyes like it’s a romance novel. The whole thing is entirely too much to cope with. It’s hard not to get caught up in the moment.

 

Steve’s clutching at Billy’s shoulders. Spreading his legs so he can wrap them around Billy’s waist. He’s moaning. _Billy. Billy. Oh god, Billy._

 

“Yeah, baby. You feel so good. So perfect for me,” Billy mumbles in between smears of lips. It’s not the sort of thing people say to Steve unless they’re inside him. He can’t help the way his hips jerk. The fever starting to boil.

 

“‘M gonna come,” he whimpers. Usually has to psych himself up for it. He’s so close. Teetering on that edge that sometimes won’t let him crash over.

 

“You’re so fuckin’ sexy. Do it, baby. Come for me.”

 

Steve does. His whole body jerks. Rhythmic pulses rolling through him. He stops breathing. Tenses and relaxes. Exhausted and gasping.

Billy licks into his mouth. He can feel rough knuckles brushing against his stomach as Billy jerks off. Feverish and desperate. _Fuck, fuck, fuck._

 

He splatters across Steve’s skin, hot and viscous. Runny egg white. Steve kinda wants to taste it.

 

Billy flops down beside him. Giggling. Smile all wide and dopey.

 

“Jesus. I always thought it would be good, but Jesus H. Christ.”

 

“Yeah,” Steve’s throat is dry. He needs water. A shower. Maybe a sedative to keep the anxiety contained. Barely a moment after coming, his brain is kicking into gear again. Telling him how bad he just screwed up. What Happens Next is a terrible question.

 

“You hungry?” Billy traces his fingers up Steve’s arm. “I could make pancakes or something.”

 

“That would be nice.”

 

Billy kisses him one last time. So heartbreakingly gentle. Then he’s up, strutting nude across the room, presumably towards the kitchen. Steve tries to breathe deep and slow down his heart rate. It doesn’t work. He takes a pill before exiting his bedroom to face the world.


	4. Rejoice, You'll Never Make It Out Alive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please note the addition of the **Parent Death** tag. It is not Steve's parents. 
> 
> Billy Hargrove’s kink is being nice to people. You Can't Change My Mind.

 

“Soooo… who’s the lucky duck that got their hands on you?” Emmet pokes at the purple mark on Steve’s neck, filled with unwarranted glee. 

 

“Stop being weird. You’re way too into my sex life.”

 

“What sex life? You’ve gotten laid like three times in the four years I’ve known you. I’m  _ happy  _ for you, babe.”

 

“It’s been more than three times,” Steve huffs. 

 

“You’re basically a monk. Now spill. Do I know them?”

 

“You’ve met him.” Steve states pointedly down into his wine glass. He tried to get away with keeping his scarf on. But it’s hot in Emmet’s apartment. And Steve’s already kinda drunk. He forgot momentarily about the hickey. And then it was too late. 

 

“Is it Billy?”

 

“Oh my god,” Steve groans. Slumping further down the couch. 

 

“Thank fucking Christ. All this ‘will they, won’t they?’ has given me so much second-hand anxiety.”

 

“It’s really not that big of a deal.”

 

“Sure. Fucking your roommate, who you are definitely in love with, is totally small potatoes.”

 

“I’m not in love. And we’ve only hooked up like twice.” Twice in one week, but hey, who’s counting?

 

“How was it?”

 

“Good, I guess?”

 

Elliot just raises his eyebrows. 

 

“Fine. It was really good. What do you want?”

 

“I just want you to thrive, sweet darling dove.” Emmet claps his hands. “Jan owes me $20. She’d lost faith in you ever sealing the deal.”

 

“I’m in hell.”

 

“So how big is his dick? He walks like someone with a big dick.”

 

“Literal hell.”

 

***

 

Steve doesn’t know what to do with himself when Billy is home. Before, he could just lounge on the couch, or sit at the table, or sprawl in his bed with the door open, and not really think about it too hard. Now he’s self conscious. Always obsessing about how his hair looks. Whether or not he’s sitting awkwardly. He keeps compulsively brushing his teeth after eating or drinking anything. 

 

He’s jumpy. He’s never lived with someone who he was… doing stuff with. He feels like he’s suddenly carrying out his days on a sitcom set, with the camera always rolling. Ready to catch every time he stumbles, or spills something, or misspeaks. 

 

When he’s nervous, he drops things. He’s shattered three water glasses in as many days. If Billy’s noticed, he hasn’t said anything. He hasn’t been acting any different. He still walks around the apartment in his underwear, smoking cigarettes, and drinking warm alcohol while he cooks. He’s so relaxed. Steve envies the loose, easy way he holds himself. The way he doesn’t seem like a frayed wire that’s lost all plastic insulation. 

 

“Do you wanna watch a movie or something tonight?” Billy asks, stirring a pot of some meat and vegetable concoction. 

 

Steve is perched on a chair in the kitchen. Pretending to write an essay. Unable to focus. He’s just chewing on the end of his pen. Bouncing his leg. Glancing up at Billy every five seconds, because he’s got a one track mind ever since they kissed and all he can think about is  _ Billy, Billy, Billy.  _

 

“Um, sure. We could do that. Whatever.”

 

“We could also go out, if you feel like it. My friend is playing a show in Bucktown.”

 

Steve doesn’t really want to leave the house. He’s feeling all jittery. Like the world is too big, and bright, and crowded. He’s paranoid that Billy’s friends don’t like him. He’s not cool enough. Not  _ punk _ enough. He doesn’t really dress like a snobby rich kid, in polo shirts and sportcoats. He mostly walks around in worn out sweaters and jeans, but he’s worried they can still tell. They can smell the money on him. His skin is too soft and his hair is too shiny and his teeth aren’t stained or crooked. 

 

“Sure. That’s cool.” Steve forces a smile.

 

Billy turns the stove off. Pours the stew into two bowls and sets them on the table. He gets Steve a glass of water. Grabs a beer for himself before sitting down. 

 

“Do you have an actual preference?” Billy nudges Steve’s foot under the table.

 

“Oh. Uh. Not really.”

 

“Man, you’re not gonna give me an excuse to stay in tonight?” 

 

“We can if you want to.” Steve is looking down at his bowl. It smells good. His stomach has been twisting itself in knots all day. He didn’t eat breakfast. Or lunch. All he’s had is coffee. He’s not entirely sure what eating solid food will do. It might make him throw up.

 

Is it more insulting to not eat what Billy cooked or to get sick immediately afterwards?

 

“Hey.” Billy reaches across the table, resting his fingers on Steve’s exposed wrist. “Are you OK?”

 

“Yes.” Steve says without pausing.

 

“I only ask because you’ve been like, vibrating in your chair and trying to eat your pen.”

 

Shit. 

 

“Sorry.” Steve mumbles before he can think about how stupid he sounds. His face would be burning if his blood were circulating right. His hands and feet are so cold. 

 

“You’re fine.” Billy squeezes his arm. “I just worry about you. Sometimes it seems like you’re thinking about a lot of stuff and just not saying any of it.”

 

“Well, yeah. I’m always thinking. Can’t really stop.”

 

“What sort of stuff are you thinking?”

 

“I dunno. I guess–like–I think a lot about what other people are thinking. I um… think a lot about other points of view. Try to get at stuff from all sides. Try to understand people. Why they do things. Everyone thinks they’re right, and that their perspective is the real one, you know? And when anyone does something I don’t agree with, I want to know why. Like, what thought process got them there. I think a lot about death, and how we can’t ever really be sure of anything, and how weird memories are. Like, you can’t really know anything outside your own perceptions. You can’t even really trust your own brain, when it comes to how you remember stuff. You’re remembering the last time you remembered something, not the actual event.”

 

“That sounds kinda exhausting.”

 

“Yeah.” Steve deflates a little. “I guess it is.”

 

“Is there anything I can do to help you relax?”

 

“I don’t know. Probably not. I could take more pills, but then I’ll go to sleep.”

 

“And you don’t want to go to sleep. Because of the nightmares.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“When exactly was the last time you slept?”

 

Billy worked last night. Steve closed his door. He almost never turns his light off while he’s home, even if he’s passed out. So what if he was reading instead of doing other things?

 

“Couple days ago,” Steve sighs. He shouldn’t be admitting it. But he’s so tired. He’s tired, and hungry, and running on fumes. 

 

“OK.” Billy sounds slightly exasperated, but he contains it well. At least he’s not freaking out like Emmet does sometimes. He’s not saying  _ god damn it, Steve, you need to fucking take care of yourself _ in a shrill voice. “We’ll stay in tonight.”

 

Steve relaxes a few muscles he didn’t even know were tense. Billy doesn’t make him eat. Doesn’t ask him more questions. He does bring the food along when they move to the couch, but he just sets it on the coffee table. There if Steve wants it.

 

He puts on Cheers. Curls a hand around the back of Steve’s neck, cups the base of his skull, gently massages all the tightly bunched muscles until they relent. Until Steve just slumps against him. It’s all so soothing. It’s so easy for Steve to fall into the false sense of security. He must lose consciousness within minutes.

 

He jerks awake an indeterminate amount of time later. Heart racing. Terrible, amorphous sense memory lingering in his flesh. Making it hard to breathe. Making him ache. There’s a warm body next to him. Steve is a heat seeking missile. He’s in Billy’s lap before he’s fully blinked away the flashes of imagery. 

 

“Woah, there,” Billy puts his hands on Steve’s hips. “You’re fine. I’ve got you.”

 

Steve kisses him. All hot desperation. Urgently trying to block out the bad thoughts. Just cling to the physicality of the moment. Billy seems on board with the sentiment, though he tries to slow Steve down. He reins back the kiss until it’s gentle. Less teeth and tongue. It’s frustrating. Steve doesn’t want to be treated nicely right now. 

 

So he takes the initiative, the way he only does when his skin is crawling. He squirms out of his jeans, licks two of his fingers and slides them down between his legs. Billy just stares at him, like he doesn’t get it. So they haven’t really fucked before and it's been all rubbing against each other like horny teenagers. So what? 

 

Steve isn’t ready, objectively. He’s gonna be tight and nowhere near wet enough. That’s the point. He gets Billy’s dick out. Not bothering to do more then pull down the waistband of his basketball shorts. Spits on his other hand, slides it over Billy’s cock. Then he lines it up. Tries to sink down into it. But Billy is holding onto him too tightly. Moving him back a bit. Steve’s too weak to press the issue. 

 

“I appreciate the enthusiasm and all,” Billy says so careful. “But I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

 

“It’ll be fine,” Steve knows he sounds ragged. Maybe a little manic. “I like it this way.” 

 

“Well, I don’t. I mean, I definitely want to fuck you. But I’d rather take some time to make sure it’s good for you, and also maybe wait until you’re not all sleep deprived and have just woken up from an anxiety dream.”

 

Steve crumbles. He falls forward, resting his cheek on Billy’s shoulder. It’s not the answer he wanted. Not the answer he expected from Billy Hargrove of all people. Billy isn’t anything close to how Steve had him pegged. You’d think he might get that through his head after living with the guy and watching him carefully water his little collection of flower pots on the windowsill, and hand-sew patches onto his jackets, and call his grandmother who has dementia every week so she can tell him about her knitting projects. It’s just that Steve doesn’t trust people. He doesn’t understand why anyone would be nice without wanting something in return. It took three years for him to believe Emmet didn’t have some sinister secret agenda, wasn’t going to get frustrated and disappear when he realized Steve wouldn’t fuck him, and wanted to be his friend just because. 

 

And Steve is crying. Just a little bit. Billy’s holding him. It’s somehow not sexual, even though they’re both still half hard. It’s not really something Steve’s prepared to cope with. So he just kind of zones out. Eventually Billy carries him to bed like a child, because Billy’s strong enough to do that, and Steve’s pathetic enough to let it happen. 

 

*** 

 

Steve sleeps for roughly eighteen hours and feels embarrassed when he wakes up. About lots of things. There’s the baseline shame he drowns in all the time. Beyond that, he can’t believe Billy had to reject him. That Steve couldn’t realize how messed up it was on his own. 

 

He goes to Dunkin’ for breakfast. Gets a sugary coffee and two old fashioned chocolate donuts. Studies at the library. Goes to class. Can’t think about anything besides what he’s going to say when he gets home. 

 

He’s never been so stressed out about a relationship that may or may not exist. It’s probably making everything worse. It’s probably going to make Billy leave. And then Steve will be alone. 

 

Maybe he could move in with Emmet and they’d just be platonic life partners until they couldn’t stand to look at each other. 

 

Billy’s at work till 10pm. Steve sits in his room with the door open, holding a cup of tea to keep his hands warm. Kind of reading. Trying and failing not to  _ obsess.  _ He should probably take a sedative. But he wants to be awake and alert. Even if it means working himself into a near panic attack for no good reason. 

 

His heart jumps when the front door swings open. Except there’s two voices. Billy and another guy. They’re laughing. It’s probably one of Billy’s coworkers at the pizza place that he sometimes invites over and Steve’s met in passing. He gets up and quietly closes the door before Billy can round the hallway corner. He even turns off his light and elects to sit in the dark, so maybe Billy will think he isn’t home. 

 

“Nice digs, man.” The other voice says. It’s deep. Velvety smooth. 

 

“Thanks. I mean, it’s not really my place.”

 

“Oh yeah. Where’s ya boy at?”

 

“I’m not sure. I thought he’d be home… he might be sleeping. He definitely needs it.”

 

“He work long hours or somethin?”

 

“Goes to a lot of classes. He’s taking like eighteen credit hours. And I think he has insomnia.”

 

“Well, you know how it’s is. The sexy ones always crazy.” 

 

Steve holds his breath. Waiting for Billy to agree. 

 

“He's probably the least crazy person I’ve been with. He’s just a little nervous.”

 

“Whatever you say, man. When he go postal and show up at the shop to scream at you, I’m gonna fuckin laugh.”

 

“Now, Julien was a nutcase and I openly admitted that.”

 

“Bitch, you was living with his ass.”

 

“And he was fucking around with half the city. He barely noticed I was there unless he wanted to be mad about it. Don’t even get me started.”

 

“Pot and kettle.”

 

“Shut the fuck up if you wanna drink my beer.”

 

The TV turns on to some sitcom. Steve wants the light on. He doesn’t like the dark. He can’t help seeing shadows crawling in the corners. He can’t help imagining terrors with claws and teeth waiting to pounce. But he sucks it up. Takes a sedative, gets under his covers, and hopes he drifts off before the darkness sends him spiraling.

 

He stirs hours later, when the mattress creaks and a warm weight settles in behind him, smelling like cheap beer and the lingering cheese, oil, oregano combination of a pizza shop. Steve rolls over. Slotting himself against Billy’s body. 

 

Billy is still muscular. Still broad and strong in ways Steve isn’t. Steve’s gotten even thinner since high school. He lost a lot of muscle mass without the daily exercise of basketball. He’s skin stretched over fragile bones. Ribs and hips clearly visible, even if there’s enough meat to keep him short of starving. Billy has gotten softer. There’s a padding on his stomach that will probably age into a beer belly. The sides of his ass have little streaks of white where the skin has stretched. Steve loves to trace his fingers over them. Billy isn’t the perfect greek sculpture that he once was, and that makes him safer. It makes him nicer to press against. 

 

“Hey, baby,” Billy kisses him soft on the mouth. “You get some rest?”

 

“Yeah.” Steve runs his fingers against the fuzzy side of Billy’s head. He’s going to need to shave again soon. Maybe Steve will help him. Drag a Bic razor over tender skin to make it smooth. Billy trusts him enough to let him do that. 

 

Their lips meet again, with more heat behind it. Steve gasps at the sudden jolt over urgency, the stomach plunge of desire. It’s easy to pin Billy on his back, to tug off his boxers and kiss a trail down his chest. 

 

Billy tangles his fingers in Steve’s hair. Groans as Steve’s tongue drags over the shiny head of his cock. 

 

“Fuck, baby.” Billy’s all gravel, low and husky like an old jazz crooner. 

 

Steve likes when Billy calls him that.  _ Baby.  _ It feels special, even if it probably isn’t. He doesn’t think too hard about all the other guys who have probably sucked Billy’s cock before. Billy is charming, and attractive, and wouldn’t have a problem talking anyone at the bars into bed. He’s a self-described slut. Steve isn’t. At least, he hasn’t been for a long time. 

 

But knows enough. He knows how to relax, part his lips, and let Billy’s dick slide back until it hits his soft palate. He knows how to bob his head in a steady rhythm. Billy seems to like it kind of sloppy, so Steve just lets the drool run down his chin. 

 

Billy never pushes. He tries to keep his hips still, even if they occasionally twitch like he wants to fuck Steve’s throat. Steve would like that. But even if he asked, he’s not sure he’d get it. He’s not sure Billy would want to make him cry and gag. 

 

It’s hard to say where all of Billy’s old anger went. Steve hasn’t been able to find it. Hasn’t even seen Billy raise his voice. Much less try to throw a punch, or shove anyone. There was a time where Billy Hargrove was very comfortable with knocking Steve to the ground. Not anymore. Now he’s so careful, every touch so kind and measured, he might as well be a different person. Maybe he is. Every cell in the human body regenerates and changes as the years tick by. We’re all living, breathing Ships of Theseus. If a boat is constantly repaired, so every individual piece is replaced over time, is it the same boat? Does it matter?

 

Billy moans. Quiet, breathless little sounds that make Steve’s head spin. Makes him push himself. Try to take more. Try to let Billy’s cock edge into his throat.

 

“Oh  _ god, _ just like that.” Billy’s back arches. He’s breathing faster. His cock twitches against Steve’s tongue, throbbing and eager. 

 

Steve knows he can’t really deepthroat anybody. At least, he can’t do it if he’s not being held down and forced into it. Billy’s not huge, but he’s also not small. Steve can get about three quarters of the way down before the hesitation kicks in.

 

He stays right on that edge. Letting Billy’s cock tease at his throat. Not quite slipping through the opening. Just hinting at it. 

 

Billy doesn’t give any warning. He might not know it himself until he’s already past the last exit. The first few times he kept apologizing— _ I’m not usually all hair trigger, like what the fuck.  _ Steve takes it as a compliment. Happily swallows the warm, sticky mess, as Billy grunts, and can’t keep from rolling his hips as he chases those last few jolts of pleasure. 

 

Steve’s still just got a slight chub. The mind is willing. The pills are an insurmountable road block. Even if he got it up, he wouldn’t be able to finish. 

 

Billy pulls him up to kiss him. Holds him tight. Kissing is nice. Steve could do it forever. 

 

“Do you want me to…?” Billy dips his thumb under the waistband of Steve’s boxers. 

 

“Nah. Um… took something to help me sleep. I can’t uh…”

 

“Gotcha.” Billy squeezes him. Not discernibly upset. 

 

Steve’s pretty mad at himself for not blaming the sedatives at other points in life when he couldn’t perform. But the sedatives haven’t always been there. The problem runs much deeper. 

 

“Well, thank you. That was awesome.” Billy kisses him on the cheek. “But you know you don’t have to, right? Like. I don’t expect it.”

 

“I wanted to.” Steve almost tears up. Because he did want to. Because nobody else has ever told him he didn’t have to. Everyone expects it from the first kiss onwards. 

 

“OK. Good.”

 

***

 

Somehow, it’s February 13th. Which means Steve and Billy have been doing their  _ thing _ , whatever it is, for like two months. Time is weird. It’s hasn’t felt like that long at all. 

 

If he were the sentimental type, Steve might call the messy frotting and drawn out blowjobs  _ making love.  _ He’s not the sentimental type. He’s the anxious type. So he worries that the fact Billy hasn’t fucked him means he’s done something wrong. Whenever he’s uncomfortable, he looks for what he’s done wrong. Plenty of people have pointed it out. That he has problems breaking free of the conditioning of youth. Of being told it’s his fault if any negative feelings start to well up. It’s something he’s trying to work on. He always gets stuck on the first step—acknowledging the problem. 

 

Steve buys a stupid heart-shaped box of chocolates and a bottle of middle-shelf champagne at the bodega. He hides them both in his closet and wonders if it’s worse to give someone you’re seeing an awkward present on Valentines Day or to give them no present at all. 

 

Billy gets home from work at around six. They eat dinner together and watch some cheesy horror movie. It’s comfortable, sitting on the couch, tangled up in each other. Billy always drapes his arm around Steve’s shoulder. Puts a hand on his thigh. Steve curls into him. Sometimes even swinging his legs up to rest over Billy’s. It’s technically cuddling, though neither of them would call it that if pressed. 

 

They wind up in Steve’s bed. Like they usually do. Because Steve’s bed is more  _ comfortable _ . Because if they sleep together, Steve will actually sleep. Because the nightmares don’t come as often and don’t last as long if Steve drifts off in Billy’s arms. 

 

Steve’s subconscious is still a twisted mess of fangs, and vines, and sawdust. He’s just kind of stopped fixating quite so much. Now he’s fixated on Billy. Thinks about him all the time. Can’t stop thinking about him. Feels stupid, giddy, like he’s on drugs. 

 

The word  _ lovesick _ comes to mind, since he starts to physically ache if he doesn’t get his fix–if he doesn’t see Billy at least every twelve hours or so. But it’s not love. Steve doesn’t do love. He especially doesn’t do it with a dirty punk kid who works at a pizzeria and seems to have no conventional sense of ambition. Billy seems happy at his shitty job, smoking weed, drinking with his friends, going to shows, spending the spoils from his tip jar on new tattoos. He has no direction. At least not that Steve can ascertain. That’s supposed to be a problem, right? You’re supposed to grow up and  _ make something of yourself. _

 

Maybe those are just his father’s words bouncing around in his head. Maybe Steve’s drive to succeed has run him into the ground and that’s why his cart full of hopes and dreams got so rickety. He’s never stopped to repair it. 

 

Billy likes to kiss him on the nose, or the forehead as they settle into bed. It always makes Steve feel gooey and warm. He hates it. 

 

“Night, babe,” Billy murmurs. It’s the sort of sound Steve wants to put on a tape so he can listen to it whenever he feels like shit. It makes him feel like maybe he’s not so awful. Even if it’s just for a moment.

 

“Goodnight.”

 

Steve dreams about the roar of a wood chipper. He dreams about the wiry hair of a grown man’s beard rubbing against his neck. Wet panting in his ear. 

 

He dreams about stumbling through the forest. Blood seeping into the  _ spider-man  _ underwear he’ll throw away. He dreams about vomiting into a narrow river while birds sing overhead, watching, pale and shaky, as the half digested slurry of grey-yellow corn flakes float downstream. 

 

But those dreams fade. Swirl away into darkness. And instead there’s warm water pattering across his naked back. He’s pressed up against someone else’s wet skin. Someone who smells like cigarettes, and pizza sauce, and whiskey. He’s in the shower with Billy, holding onto broad shoulders,  tipping his head back under the spray. Unafraid to close his eyes and let the water wash over him. 

 

He wakes up, calm in the dim morning light as his alarm screeches. Billy groans and rolls over when Steve has to climb out of bed. He puts the champagne in the refrigerator and leaves the chocolates on the table with a sticky note that says “Happy Valentine’s Day”. 

 

Steve’s not the sentimental type, but maybe it’s something he could learn to be. 

 

***

 

The phone is ringing. It’s not a Wednesday. It’s a Sunday morning. Steve wouldn’t usually answer. But Billy had to pick up a shift, and he calls his Grandma on Sunday. She’s called a few times when Billy wasn’t around. Steve picked up, and she kept getting confused or forgetting a minute or two after he told her he wasn’t Billy. So he sat there and listened to her tell him about her pet parakeets, Elvis and Peanut, because it seemed like the polite thing to do. She really is a nice old lady. She talks a lot about baking, and asks if Billy has tried the recipes she mailed. It’s easy to see where Billy picked up his love of cooking. 

 

So Steve answers the phone, thinking he’s going to hear a story about what Esther’s birds have been up to. Or maybe he’ll get the scoop on the latest nursing home gossip, who’s been stealing extra jello and cheating at bingo. 

 

“Hello?”

 

“Billy?” It’s a decidedly younger female voice on the other end of the line. Steve never really thought he and Billy sounded that much alike. But over long distance, maybe it’s harder to tell. 

 

“Uh, no. Billy’s at work. It’s Steve.”

 

“OK.” The person on the other end takes a few deep breaths. “It’s Max.”

 

“Oh, hey Max. How’s it going?”

 

“It’s been better.” More steady breaths. “I guess maybe it’s good if you tell him. I didn’t really want to.”

 

“Tell him what?”

 

“Neil was in a car accident. He’s in the hospital right now. He’s not doing very well.”

 

“Shit.”

 

“Yeah. I doubt Billy will want to come down or anything. But I thought he should know.”

 

“I’ll tell him when he gets home—or—maybe I should call him at work? It sounds kind of urgent…”

 

“Up to you, man. Good luck.” 

 

The line goes dead. Steve just stands there until the phone starts beeping at him. He hangs up. Paces for a few minutes. Then he calls the pizza place. 

 

“Arnold’s. How can I help you?” a deep voice answers. 

 

“Um, hi. Can I please talk to Billy?”

 

“Who’s this?” The person on the other end of the line snaps his gum. Obviously wary. Probably been warned not to hand the phone over if it’s Julien. 

 

“Steve. His roommate.”

 

“Oh, OK. Hang on a minute.”

 

Steve hears the clatter of a kitchen. Chattering voices. He curls the wire around his fingers. Trying to keep it together. 

 

“Hello?” Billy sounds nervous. “Steve? Is everything OK?”

 

“Hi. Yeah. Well. Not exactly. Max just called.”

 

“Why?” 

 

“Your dad is in the hospital. It doesn’t sound good.”

 

“Oh.” There’s a very long pause. “He’s like, dying?”

 

“I don’t know. He was in a car accident or something.”

 

Another pause. “That it?”

 

“Well, I guess. I mean, that’s why I thought maybe I should call. To tell you. It seemed kind of time sensitive.”

 

“Yeah.” Billy sighs. “I get it.”

 

“Do you need anything? Like, should I come pick you up or send a cab…?”

 

“Nah. Gotta finish my shift. I’ll see you at home.” 

 

The line goes dead. For a moment, Steve just ponders the family resemblance. The flat way that both Max and Billy seemed to react to the prospect of Neil dying. It’s uncomfortable to ponder. What is Steve going to do when his parents get older? What is he going to do if his dad has a heart attack, or his mom gets breast cancer like his grandmother did? Will he be sad? Will he go to the funeral even if they’ve formally disowned him at that point?

 

He’s not sure. He decides to make spaghetti and meatballs for when Billy gets home. It’s probably not very good. But it’s the best he can do. 

 

*** 

 

Billy doesn’t buy a bus ticket back to Indiana. He doesn’t let Steve buy him a bus ticket either. He doesn’t want to talk about it. He drinks a lot more than usual. He sits on the couch and watches TV instead of cooking or listening to records. Those are the only visible changes. He’s still going to work. Still going out with his friends. Ostensibly pretending nothing is wrong. 

 

Steve cooks sub-par meals. He tries to keep the apartment clean—even if it’s not quite at the standard Billy has been maintaining. He waters the flowers, and makes coffee in the morning, and wants to gently suggest he’d pay for Billy to see a therapist, but that seems intrusive. 

 

The call comes a few days later. Steve answers. Because Billy just lets the phone ring and ring. 

 

“Steve speaking,” he says. Because he already suspects who it is. 

 

“Ah. It’s uh—Max again.”

 

“What’s up?”

 

The silence is deafening. Billy picks up the bottle of whiskey that’s been sitting on the coffee table and downs the rest of it. 

 

“Yeah. The funeral is Saturday. Neil died in his sleep last night. He was um—comfortable, I guess. I don’t really know what you’re supposed to say.”

 

“I don’t either.” 

 

“If Billy wants to come back—my mom will put him up. Or, she said she’d get him a hotel room. I know she’d like him to be here.”

 

“I’ll let him know.”

 

“Steve?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Take care of him, OK?”

 

“I’ll do my best.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

Then it’s just a dial tone. Steve goes and sits down next to Billy on the couch. Billy is just staring off into the distance. He grabs Steve’s hand and squeezes it tight enough to turn the skin white. 

 

“That piece of shit actually kicked the bucket, huh?” Billy is clutching the whiskey bottle in his other hand, even though it’s empty. 

 

“Yeah. Max gave me all the info. If you wanna go down there…” 

 

“Hell no,” Billy laughs. Harsh and strained. “Why would I wanna go listen to all his stupid army buddies drone about what a great guy he was? They’re all trash, just like him. Bet they’d take a swing at me if I dared show my face at the service anyway. Bet he told them all I was a fuckin’ fag.”

 

It’s just a brief glimpse into the past. The past where Billy was calloused. Angry. Ready to break something, anything within reaching distance. 

 

_ “Fuck.” _ Billy kicks the coffee table. Throws the empty bottle on the floor. It shatters, covering the hardwood in broken glass. He’s holding onto Steve’s hand, trembling, flushed red. He doubles over. Face pressed against his knees and stays like that for a long time. 

 

Steve knows what you say to a stranger who is experiencing grief. My condolences. He knows how to listen to a patient. How to sit there and wait for them to let the flood spill forth. He’s not sure what to do when someone’s abusive father dies. 

 

All he can really do is be there. He hopes it’s enough. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Home stretch! I ... think it will be done next week? It always takes like... ten times longer to write the last scene of something than any other part. Pray for me.


	5. Small Red Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you've made it this far, you'll probably be fine? But there's more discussion of sexual trauma.

Billy continues to drink double his normal volume through the end of the week. He actually calls off work. Stops showering of his own volition. It’s at least the sort of breakdown Steve recognizes. The visible cracks are somehow easier to cope with than a continued front of calm. 

 

“It’s probably fucked up that I feel relieved.” Billy says on Saturday morning, sitting at the kitchen table. There are dark circles under his eyes. He didn’t come to bed with Steve. He stayed on the couch all night. Presumably not sleeping. Watching a bunch of slashers he rented at the video store. He reeks of alcohol and cigarettes. He’s ignoring the lumpy pancakes on his plate.

 

“I dunno. I think that makes sense. It’s been stressful.”

 

“Yeah. Because I didn’t go down there. And that’s probably fucked up too. Not showing for your dad’s funeral. God. Susan is never going to let that go. I’ll probably never see Max again.”

 

“Max is like, twenty this year, right? I’m sure her mom wouldn’t be able to stop her from visiting if she wanted to.”

 

“She doesn’t want to.” Billy puts his head on the table. “I was a dick to her.”

 

“It’s been years. You were just a kid too.”

 

“Stop it. I want to feel like shit.” Billy mumbles. Maybe half joking. Probably not. 

 

Steve scoots his chair closer, wooden legs scraping on the tile floor. He puts his arm around Billy. Squeezes. 

 

“It’s OK that you didn’t go.”

 

“You can’t say that. You don’t really have any skin in this game, Harrington.” Billy at least sits up again. Even if he’s still refusing eye contact. 

 

“So, take my outside opinion. Funerals are for the people who are still alive. Showing up wouldn’t have made you feel better. I’m sure Max understands. Who gives a fuck what Susan or any of Neil’s friends think.”

 

“He’s dead.” Billy sounds so hollow. “I can’t believe that fucker died on me. I wanted to murder him myself.”

 

Steve just squeezes Billy’s shoulder again. He knows that this is how Billy copes. Off-colour remarks. Edgy throwaway lines. 

 

“You know, Neil didn’t let me go to my mom’s funeral.”

 

Steve’s stomach drops. Billy  _ never _ mentions his mother. Literally never. 

 

“I was like… four, I think. So I guess I get it. Not wanting to have a crying toddler trying to climb in the casket because he misses his mom. He pawned me off on one of his sisters–Candice–I always thought I just didn’t remember the funeral, but then old Candi got drunk at thanksgiving and mad at Neil so she told me a lot of shit I didn’t know. But I never saw my mom’s grave until we were about to move away from California. So in a weird way, maybe this is poetic or something.”

 

Before Steve even has the chance to come up with a response, Billy’s grabbing him. He hauls Steve into his lap. Squeezing him tight. Resting his cheek against Steve’s chest. 

 

Steve hugs him back. Kisses the top of his head. Just a few tears stain Steve’s t-shirt. It’s the most Steve’s ever seen Billy cry. He doesn’t comment on it. He just holds Billy tighter. 

 

***

 

After the funeral comes and goes, some of the pressure seems to dissipate. Billy seems to fall back into the routine of life. Everyone copes with grief differently. Steve shouldn’t judge him for appearing to recover so fast. 

 

Maybe Billy never learned how to be sad because he wasn’t allowed to. In the same way that Steve doesn’t know how to be angry. Only hurt, despondent or guilty. 

 

It’s kind of stereotypical, the way they’ve fallen into their roles. Steve all delicate, ever the blushing wallflower. The airy intellectual, too lost in his own thoughts to be functional. Billy is rugged strength. He fixes things. He’s invulnerable, steady, a mast to cling to in the roiling storm. Steve can’t help but wonder what he actually gives Billy that’s worth keeping. Maybe it’s money. Maybe Billy couldn’t live in such a nice neighborhood, or have an apartment with in-unit laundry and a dishwasher. Maybe he wouldn’t be able to buy organic vegetables and obscure ingredients for his cooking endeavours without Steve’s checkbook. But money doesn’t seem to matter all that much to Billy. He gives the general impression of someone who would wear clothes with holes in them, even if he were making a decent salary. He’s  _ simple _ in a way that Steve finds incomprehensible. Billy isn’t stupid, or vapid, or ignorant to the evils of the world. He’s just. Happy. Content with his place in life. He’s found the sort of peace Steve will never taste. 

 

But maybe he makes Steve wish he were better in a more urgent way. There’s a difference between knowing you should try to pick up the pieces and putting a meaningful effort into it. Before, it’s always seemed so overwhelming. But Billy takes care of things now. Steve doesn’t have to worry as much about whether or not he’ll have the energy to make dinner, or wash his clothes, or do something about all the cups he hoards on his desk because he always wants a glass of water when he’s working but he forgets to bring the glasses back to the sink when he’s done. The ever looming stress of what he’s going to do on a Friday night to give the appearance he’s not a total shut-in has been removed. Someone is there to tell him he needs to sleep. He needs to put food in his mouth. He needs to take a break from writing essays because it’s been a solid seven hours, and his legs are numb from sitting in a hard chair for so long, and the words he’s penning have probably become disorganized and borderline nonsensical.

 

Steve makes an appointment with his old therapist. The one he hasn’t talked to in a couple of years. It’s a Step. Because it’s outside of group, or class, or any other tethers to his daily life. He lies down on the couch and stares at the ceiling in silence for a good five minutes before he says it. 

 

“When I was nine, and staying at my grandparents house for the summer, I was raped by two men that I ran across in the woods.”

 

He feels sick. There are tears welling up in his eyes. But he’s still breathing. 

 

He’s wearing one of Billy’s sweaters that smells like tobacco smoke. It smells like home, and comfort, and safety. It’s the smell of not being hurt when you’re belly-up and vulnerable. So Steve stays like that, lying on his back, and talking about sawdust.

 

He goes back the next week and talks about the wood chipper. How his parents wouldn’t have believed him, even if he said something. Worse, if they listened, they might have blamed him. How could he do something so stupid as stray too far into the forest? What does he think all those fairy tales about big bad wolves were for?

 

The week after that he talks about freshman year, and how he got much too drunk at some frat party, and he woke up to some random guy fucking him. Because by then everyone knew he was a Queer. So he’d be into it, right? No need to ask. No problem just using hand lotion as lube and not wearing a condom. Steve should have been grateful someone on the football team even wanted him. 

 

Trauma has a tendency to perpetuate itself. There was a two year stretch of innumerable men at parties, at bars, at random gatherings in dorm rooms. Men who would drag Steve off to the bathroom, or their car, or if he was lucky—their bed. He’d let them do whatever they wanted. Didn’t care if it felt good. It usually didn’t. He’d just pretend he was somewhere else until it ended. Because that’s what you do to feel like you’re worth something. Steve existed to be attractive. It’s all anyone saw in him. He barely remembers any of the faces. Let alone the names. The duality of feeling desired and disgusting roiled inside him constantly. 

 

Then one day, he just stopped. Stopped going to parties, and bars, and gatherings. Stopped letting people touch him. Dated infrequently. Dreaded the looming threat of sex. Tried to teach himself to like the discomfort of it. To embrace the degradation as some form of mastery. Never really succeeded. 

 

Something shifts inside him, when he starts to think of all those past encounters as dubiously consensual. Non consensual. The clear cut cases of assault are easy. But thinking about all those times he just wanted a kiss and ended up bent over a sink, grunting through the pain of too much, too fast, not enough lube. He didn’t say  _ no _ . He also never said  _ yes.  _ None of them really asked for his input on the subject before ploughing ahead. 

 

The hardest thing to think about, are the partners who took him on dates, and gave him presents, and said such nice things to him. It’s hard to think about those objectively nice people who chastised him for never initiating  _ physical intimacy.  _ Always complaining that he didn’t seem interested, telling him he made them feel unattractive. He almost melts down, thinking about Nancy, and the first time he couldn’t get hard, and the way she looked at him. The way she asked  _ what’s wrong with you  _ instead of  _ what’s wrong.  _ She was young then too. Surely didn’t mean it. Didn’t realize what damage it could do. 

 

He goes home to Billy, curls up against him, and doesn’t say much of anything for hours at a time. Billy doesn’t press him. Just drapes an arm around him, and sits in comfortable silence while they watch TV, or he reads about urban gardening, or he listens to music and smokes a joint. 

 

Steve is far from fixed. He’ll always be damaged. But scar tissue is preferable to festering wounds. Monsters aren’t as scary when you drag them out into the light. 

 

***

 

It’s not like, a Special day or anything. It’s just a random Sunday in April. Steve is taking one of his really long baths, with essential oils and water so hot it’s almost uncomfortable, and his libido happens to knock him sideways—as it does every once in a long while. One minute he’s just soaking in steamy water. The next, he’s fucking Horny. Unspeakably so. He’s flushed and achy, and god, he wants to get railed. 

 

He spends a few minutes just teasing himself. Rubbing a finger against his hole. Dipping just the tip inside. He could jerk off. But he doesn’t want to waste a rare opportunity. 

 

So he drains the tub and puts on a fluffy robe. Billy is sitting on the couch, smoking a joint, flipping through some ‘Zine’ one of his friends made which looks like a bunch of weird pamphlets stabled together. Steve kneels next to him. Waits for attention. It doesn’t take more than about ten seconds for Billy to look up. 

 

“Hey, baby. Have a nice bath?”

 

Steve leans in and kisses him on the side of the mouth. Billy turns his head a little. Making it an actual kiss. He sets aside his reading material. Puts the joint in the ashtray. Steve settles into his lap. Hard. Desperate. Gasping a little every time their tongues touch. 

 

“Want you to fuck me,” Steve breathes. Blood too hot under his skin. 

 

He’s not sure he’s ever said that and meant it before. Not the way he does right now. Asking for it because he wants to enjoy it. Not just using it to keep the monsters at bay. 

 

“Yeah?” Billy squeezes his hip. “You sure? I mean—I like the way we have sex. We don’t have to—“

 

“Please.” Steve presses even closer. “I wanna try it with you. I want it to be… nice.”

 

Billy groans. He loops his arms around Steve’s waist. Stands up, holding him, and carries him to bed. It feels good to fall back against the mattress with Billy on top of him. Kissing him. Holding him. The usual panic of performance, the anticipation of pain, the echoing reverberations of trauma, aren’t closing in. It’s all still there. Floating in the background. He just doesn’t have to focus on them. 

 

Instead he’s fixated on Billy’s hands, opening the robe, tracing over skin. He kisses down Steve’s chest. Down his stomach. Nips at his hip. Squeezes his thighs as he guides Steve to bend and spread his legs. 

 

It’s a comforting blur of sensation. Not checking out, like Steve sometimes does. But also not fixating. Not dreading. He  _ trusts _ Billy. He could say  _ stop  _ and Billy would. In fact, Billy would stop long before Steve had to say something—because he can just  _ tell _ when Steve is uncomfortable. Which is sometimes infuriating. But in this case, it’s an upside. 

 

Billy’s mouth is warm and wet. It feels good around Steve’s cock. His fingers are thick, but he’s careful with them. Tracing. Gentle pressure. He pauses what he’s doing to grab the lube off the floor, then he’s right back into it. Licking just the tip of Steve’s cock. Pressing one finger into him. Steve tenses, but just for a second. Just until he opens his eyes and sees Billy looking up at him. Waiting for the go ahead. He nods. Breathless. Goes slack and pliant, as Billy touches him. 

 

Nothing has ever felt like less of a preamble. It’s not hurried. Not something to get out of the way. Billy’s steady. Methodical. Just barely brushing against the right spot. It makes Steve shiver. Makes his back arch. Eventually makes him roll his hips, because he wants more. 

 

He’s still so hard. Hot. His skin feels electric, almost over sensitive. 

 

He’s whining by the time Billy slips a second finger in.  _ Please, please, please.  _ He feels like the moment of weightless instability before plunging off a high dive. He’s going to overflow. 

 

_ “Billy,”  _ it sounds so pathetic. Tortured and desperate. 

 

“You gonna come for me, baby?”

 

“I don’t—I don’t want to yet—“

 

Billy pauses. Kisses Steve’s hip bone. It’s agony. The break in stimulation makes everything so much worse. So much more intense. Oh god. Oh fuck. 

 

All it takes is a twitch of Billy’s fingers and Steve’s gone. He’s shuddering. Whole body rolling with the rhythmic pulses. 

 

“ _ Fuck _ ,” Billy groans. Shifting on the bed to get a hand down his shorts. Like he can’t help himself. “God you’re so fucking hot.”

 

“Don’t stop.” It might come out a little slurred. Dazed. 

 

“You sure? It’s fine if you need a minute.”

 

“Want you.” Steve mumbles. “Want you in me.”

 

“OK. OK. Fuck.”

 

Billy continues. It doesn’t hurt exactly. It’s a conflicting signal. An urge to shy away, mingling with the desire for more. 

 

Three fingers aren’t difficult the way they usually are. Steve feels so wet and open. He’s breathing too fast. Dizzy from all the sensory input. He’s still hard. It’s crazy to think he could come again. He doesn’t always orgasm once with a partner. By himself… well sometimes he can. But. 

 

“Are you ready, baby?” Billy sounds strained. He’s naked now. Hand around his cock. Stroking it slowly. Looking at Steve like he’s starving. Fingers still in him. Fucking him so tender. 

 

“Yes,” Steve whines. “Please.  _ Billy.” _

 

Then Billy falls forward. Kissing him. Lining up and pressing into him. That first moment of penetration is a surge of adrenaline. Old fight or flight instincts flaring. But Billy doesn’t rush it. He waits until Steve relaxes before going any further. Rocks into him slow. Talking to him in that rough, smoker’s whisper. Telling him how good it feels. How perfect he is. In the moment, Steve lets himself believe it. That this is special. That it’s different. That this is the start of something new and untainted by everything that came before it. 

 

Billy bottoms out. He’s as deep inside Steve as he can get. It’s overwhelming. Steve clutches at him. Holding onto his broad shoulders. Letting himself float in this strange new feeling because Billy won’t let him drown. 

 

Most people move like it’s urgent. Skin slapping together. Harsh. Degrading. 

 

Billy moves like the ocean. Cresting waves. Steady. Natural. All encompassing. 

 

Steve hates the thoughts swirling through his head. He’s not the sort of person who falls for the hallmark bullshit. He’s too damaged. He’s seen all the ugliness of the world. And here he is. All choked up.  _ This is what it’s like to feel joined with someone else. He’s a part of me. We’re a better whole.  _

 

It’s like suddenly understanding the point of love songs. An abrupt pivot on how terrible it is to hear someone crooning,  _ can’t live without you.  _ This is what the fuss is all about. Steve wants to fucking cry. Something has to give. He’s feeling  _ too much.  _

 

As it turns out, that whole mess decides to manifest in another bone rocking orgasm. He’s over the edge before he knows what’s happening. Pulsing. Clenching around Billy. Hips jerking. Gasping. 

 

“Holy  _ shit _ ,” Billy groans into his shoulder. 

 

Then he goes still too. They’re just breathing. All tangled up in each other. It’s nice. 

 

***

 

It’s summer, and Steve’s taking a lighter course load. Billy mentions that Esther’s birthday is coming up. She’s in a nursing home, all the way back in California. She’s Billy’s mother’s mother. Lived in Oakland all her life. It’s a longer bus ride than Billy could afford to take off from work. Steve can’t skip that many classes without falling behind.

 

So Steve doesn’t ask permission. He just buys two round-trip plane tickets for a weekend that Billy’s not working. He books a hotel. Rents a car. Tells Billy to pack a bag, and doesn’t have much trouble ignoring the protests, because it’s already been paid for. 

 

Billy’s nervous at the airport. He’s never flown before. Steve gives him a sedative when he asks for one. They both sleep the five hours it takes to get to San Francisco.

 

Billy drives when they pick up the car, because he’s used to navigating the busy roads. Everything in San Francisco is a paradox of being uphill. There doesn’t ever seem to be a down. 

 

At the hotel, Billy takes the piercings out of his ears. He combs his hair and slicks it down. He puts on the one button-down shirt he owns, pinstriped blue that brings out his eyes, and some black slacks, with a worn leather belt. All his tattoos hidden, all his silver jewelry gone, he looks like he could work at a bank. Steve keeps blinking at him. Staring at him. It’s like he fell into a parallel dimension. 

 

But Steve takes the cue to dress up. Puts on a collared shirt and a sweater vest, because that’s apparently where he’s at in life. He’s a little surprised that he’s allowed to tag along at all. He’s never met somebody’s grandparent before. It’s seems infinitely more personal than meeting someone’s parents. 

 

It’s a nice nursing home, at least. Lots of windows. Plants in the corners of every room, and vibrant paintings on the walls. There’s plenty of seniors shuffling around in robes and slippers. All the nurses seem cheery enough, in their bright blue scrubs, and silver plated name-tags. 

 

Esther's room has a sign on it, with her name bordered by paper flowers. The door is open. She’s sitting in a wheelchair, knitting a blanket. Elvis and Peanut are chirping in their cage next to the bed. 

 

“William!” Her face brightens instantly. “Oh, goodness. It’s wonderful to see you.”

 

Billy bends down to give her a hug before pulling up a chair right next to her. Steve offers an awkward little wave and sits next to Billy.

 

“Grandma, this is my friend Steve.”

 

“Hello, Steve. It’s nice to meet you.” Esther offers a wobbling hand, and Steve gently shakes it.

 

Esther begins to ramble about the things Steve has become accustomed to hearing. At one point she gets out a photo album, and shows Billy pictures of his mother as a little girl. Pictures of his grandfather, in full military regalia with dozens of medals pinned to his chest. Sepia-toned photographs of large family gatherings on the beaches in northern California.

 

She stops for quite a while on a picture of Billy’s mother, Catherine, at prom. Her blonde hair is all done up in a large beehive, and she’s got a pink corsage on her wrist. The man in the picture is wearing a tan suit. He’s got a square jaw and a big smile. He looks an awful lot like Billy. It must be Neal. Billy doesn’t seem to react to it, if it bothers him. Esther doesn’t mention it either, focusing just on Catherine. Steve wonders if Esther approved of Neil, or if she suspected he wasn’t good enough for her daughter. 

 

They move on. Pictures of a wedding. Pictures of a baby that must be Billy. Steve’s favorite is one of Catherine, holding a rosy-cheeked toddler on her hip. A toddler that has her same blonde hair and bright blue eyes. They’re both smiling so wide. Billy showing his small, rounded teeth. 

 

It feels a little intrusive. Seeing so much history. Someone’s family through the generations. If Billy minds, he doesn’t show it. At the end of the photo album, he excuses himself to the bathroom. Leaving Steve alone with Esther. 

 

“What was your name, dear?” Esther asks, gently resting her wrinkled hand on Steve’s arm. 

 

“Um, Steve.”

 

“Steve. You’ll have to write that down for me before you go. You’re Billy’s… friend?”

 

“Yeah. Roommate, actually.”

 

“Oh!” She smiles. “That’s lovely. You know, Jenny, who lives down the hall—she’s a lesbian. She was with her girlfriend for fifty years. Poor dear is still a bit morose since Amanda passed. But she’s very good at bridge when we can get her to play.”

 

Steve feels himself going pink. Not sure if Esther knows, or the tangent was unrelated. She does tend to change topics mid sentence. But. 

 

Billy walks back into the room. For a moment, it seems like Steve might be safe. 

 

“William, did you already tell me that this was your boyfriend? I know my memory isn’t what it used to be…”

 

It’s Billy’s turn to go a bit rosy. “It’s fine, Grandma. I hadn’t mentioned it, don’t worry about it.”

 

“He’s very handsome.” Esther smiles, winking at Steve. “If I were a bit younger, I may try to steal him away.”

 

“Grandma!”

 

“He looks an awful lot like a sailor I met the year I stayed in France before I married your grandfather.”

 

Billy looks horrified. Steve can’t help laughing. Then Esther is back to talking about her parakeets and bingo and how she’s making a blanket for Mr. Herbert, who lives in room twelve, because his knees have been hurting lately. 

 

Visiting hours end before too much longer. Billy leaves the tin of cookies he made, and promises to come by earlier tomorrow so they can go to the park down the block. 

 

Billy’s relatively quiet during the drive back to the hotel. They’re listening to one of the radio stations Billy used to like. He said he used to put it on his alarm clock to wake him up in the mornings. Mostly rock. Some metal. Songs that remind Steve of when Billy had a mullet. 

 

_ Here I am. Rock you like a hurricane. Are you ready, baby? _

 

Billy pulls into a parking space and kills the engine. He unbuckles his seatbelt, but doesn’t get out right away.

 

“Hey, um… did you tell my grandma you were my boyfriend?” Billy is making eye contact. But he’s drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. Nervous. 

 

“Oh–no–she just like–I told her we were roommates and she just kind of assumed…”

 

“Gotcha.” Billy pauses. “Yeah. I mean, I was just wondering because–well–you’ve never said that. Before.”

 

Something is rising in Steve’s chest. Panic? Fear? Sure, they haven’t said it out loud. But they live together. They share a bed every night. They’re  _ something _ , aren’t they? It hasn’t just been sex. Right?

 

“I love you.” Billy blurts out. Like he’s afraid of saying it. Like if he stumbles through it fast enough, Steve might not catch it. “And I’m sorry if that’s too much, or if you don’t like, feel the same way. But I do.”

 

“Oh,” Steve breathes. Tension dissolving. “Same. I love you too.”

 

“You don’t have to say it back, if you don’t. I’d rather you didn’t say it, if you didn’t mean it.”

 

“I mean it.” Steve reaches across the gear shift. Takes hold of Billy’s hand. “I love you. I didn’t think I could love anybody. But. I love you. A lot.”

 

Billy slumps against his seat. Laughing a little. “Thank fucking god, man. I’ve been… shit, even back in high school, I felt something. It was kinda confusing at the time. I couldn’t tell if I hated you, or wanted to be you, or wanted to fuck you, maybe all of it? And then when I found you again…” 

 

Billy surges forward. Grabbing Steve and pulling him into a kiss. It’s dizzying. Full of a desperate emotion that Steve knows too well. He’s never needed someone as badly as he needs Billy. Thinks about him all the time. Lives and breathes him. Loves him, loves him,  _ loves him.  _

 

“Well… damn.” Billy smiles as he barely pulls away. The corners of his eyes crinkle. He’s never looked happier. “Should we go upstairs and wreck that hotel bed?”

 

“Yeah. That um… sounds pretty good.”

 

“I love you.” Billy is almost giggling. 

 

“I love you.”

 

“Fuck. Hope you’re ready to hear that like fifty times a day. There’s no stopping me now.”

 

“Oh no.” Steve rolls his eyes. “How ever will I survive?” 

 

Billy kisses him one more time. Then he bolts out of the car. He’s opening Steve’s door before Steve has even unbuckled his seat belt. He stops short of scooping Steve up and carrying him all the way to the hotel room. Or well. He manages to control himself at least until they’re in the elevator, and then bridal carries Steve that final stretch down the hallway and across the threshold. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's done! Hooray! I meant to post it last week and then I got really sick lmao.
> 
> I'm still on the dying hellsite that is tumblr. Follow for shitposts and sobbing about harringrove.


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